The  Book 

of 
American 

Negro 
Poetry 


Chosen  and  Edited 
With  an  Essay  on 
The   Negro's  Creative 
Genius  By 

JAMES  WELDON 
JOHNSON 


Very  few  people  know  how  much  good  poetry,  not  only  in 
dialect  but  also  in  straight  English,  the  Negro  race  has  con- 
tributed to  American  Literature.  This  book  is  the  first  to  give 
an  idea  of  the  Negro  poets  of  America  from  Paul  Laurence 
Dunbar  to  the  writers  of  to-day.  Mr.  Johnson  is  himself  a 
poet  of  distinction,  and  his  introductory  essay  is  both  sugges- 
tive and  stimulating. 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

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http://www.archive.org/details/bookofamericanneOOjohnrich 


The  Book  of 
American  Negro  Poetry 


CHOSEN  AND    EDITED 
WITH  AN  E55AY  ON  THE 

NLGRO'5  CREATIVE  GENIUS 


BY 

JAML5  WLLDON  J0HN50N 

Author  of "  Fifty  Years  and  Other  Poems" 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1922,   BY 
HARCOURT,   BRACE  AND   COMPANY,  INC. 


PRINTED    IN   THE    U.  8.  A.  BY 

THE  QUINN    a    BODEN    COMPANY 

RAHWAY.    N.    J. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Preface .:      .      <      .  vii 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 

A  Negro  Love  Song     .....       .       ,-       .  3 

Little  Brown  Baby .  5 

Ships  That  Pass  in  the  Night 7 

Lover's  Lane 8 

The  Debt 10 

The  Haunted  Oak 11 

When  de  Co'n  Pone's  Hot 14 

A  Death  Song 16 

James  Edwin  Campbell 

Negro  Serenade .17 

De   Cunjah  Man 18 

Uncle  Eph's  Banjo  Song 20 

or  Doc'   Hyar 21 

When  or   Sis'  Judy  Pray 23 

Compensation 25 

James  D.  Corrothers 

At  the  Closed  Gate  of  Justice 27 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 28 

The  Negro   Singer 29 

The  Road  to  the  Bow 30 

In  the  Matter  of  Two  Men 32 

An  Indignation  Dinner 34 

Dream  and  the  Song 36 

Daniel  Webster  Davis 

"Weh  Down  Souf 39 

Hog  Meat 41 

William  H.  A.  Moore 

Dusk  Song 43 

It  Was  Not  Fate 46 

W.     E.    BURGHARDT     Du    BOIS 

A  Litany  of  Atlanta 49 

iii 


iv  Contents 

George  Marion  McClellan  page 

Dogwood  Blossoms        .       .       .       ,       .       .       .       .  55 

A  Butterfly  in  Church  ........  56 

The  Hills  of  Sewanee  ........  57 

The  Feet  of  Judas        ........  58 

William  Stanley  Braithwaite 

Sandy  Star  and  Willie  Gee       .       .       .       .       .       .  59 

I.  Sculptured  Worship 
II.  Laughing  It  Out 

III.  The  Exit 

IV.  The  Way 

V.  Onus  Proband! 

Del   Cascar .       .       •  63 

Turn  Me  to  My  Yellow  Leaves 64 

Ironic:  LL.D 65 

Scintilla 66 

Sic  Vita 67 

Rhapsody 68 

George  Reginald  Margetson 

Stanzas  from  The  Fledgling  Bard  and  the  Poetry  So- 
ciety      69 

James  Weldon  Johnson 

O  Black  and  Unknown  Bards 73 

Sence  You  Went  Away 75 

The  Creation 76 

The  White  Witch 80 

Mother   Night 83 

O  Southland 84 

Brothers 85 

Fifty  Years 89 

John  Wesley  Hollow  ay 

Miss  Melerlee 93 

Calling  the  Doctor 94 

The  Corn  Song 96 

Black  Mammies 98 

Leslie  Pinckney  Hill 

Tuskegee          loi 

Christmas  at  Melrose 102 

Summer  Magic 104 

The  Teacher 105 

Edward  Smyth  Jones 

A  Song  of  Thanks 107 


Contents  v 

Ray  G.  Dandridge  page 

Time  to  Die 109 

'Ittle  Touzle  Head no 

Zalka    Peetruza ii3 

Sprin'  Fevah 113 

De  Drum  Majah 114 

Fenton  Johnson 

Children  of  the  Sun 117 

The  New  Day 119 

Tired 121 

The  Banjo  Player 122 

The  Scarlet  Woman 123 

R.  Nathaniel  Dett 

The  Rubinstein  Staccato  Etude 125 

Georgia  Douglas  Johnson 

The  Heart  of  a  Woman 127 

Youth 128 

Lost  Illusions 129 

I  Want  to  Die  While  You  Love  Me       .       .       .       .130 

Welt          131 

My  Little  Dreams 132 

Claude  McKay 

The  Lynching , 133 

If  We  Must  Die 1^4 

To  the  White  Fiends 135 

The  Harlem  Dancer 136 

Harlem  Shadows ••       .       .  137 

After  the  Winter 138 

Spring  in  New  Hampshire 139 

The  Tired  Worker 140 

The  Barrier 141 

To  O.  E.  A 142 

Flame-Heart 143 

Two-an'-Six 145 

Joseph  S.  Cotter,  Jr. 

A  Prayer 151 

And  What  Shall  You  Say? 152 

Is  It  Because  I  Am  Black? 153 

The  Band  of  Gideon 154 

Rain  Music 156 

Supplication 157 

RoscoE  C.  Jamison 

The  Negro  Soldiers 159 


vi  Contents 

Jessie  Fauset  page 

La  Vie  C'est  la  Vie i6i 

Christmas  Eve  in  France 162 

Dead  Fires 164. 

Oriflamme 165 

Oblivion           166 

Anne  Spencer 

Before  the  Feast  of  Shushan 167 

At  the  Carnival 169 

The  Wife-Woman 171 

Translation 173 

Dunbar 174 

Alex  Rogers 

Why  Adam  Sinned       ......        .       .  175 

The  Rain  Song 177 

Waverley  Turner  Carmichael 

Keep  Me,  Jesus,  Keep  Me 181 

Winter  Is  Coming x82 

Alice  Dunbar-Nelson 

Sonnet 183 

Charles  Bertram  Johnson 

A  Little   Cabin 185 

Negro  Poets 187 

Otto  Leland  Bohanan 

The  Dawn's  Awake! 189 

The  Washer-Woman 190 

Theodore  Henry  Shackelford 

The  Big  Bell  in  Zion 191 

LuciAN  B.  Watkins 

Star  of  Ethiopia 193 

Two  Points  of  View 194 

To  Our  Friends 195 

Benjamin  Brawley 

My  Hero 197 

Chaucer 199 

Joshua  Henry  Jones,  Jr. 

To  a  Skull 20X 


Preface 

There  is,  perhaps,  a  better  excuse  for  giving  an  Anthol- 
ogy of  American  Negro  Poetry  to  the  public  than  can  be 
offered  for  many  of  the  anthologies  that  have  recently 
been  issued.  The  public,  generally  speaking,  does  not 
know  that  there  are  American  Negro  poets — to  supply 
this  lack  of  information  is,  alone,  a  work  worthy  of  some- 
body's effort. 

Moreover,  the  matter  of  Negro  poets  and  the  produc- 
tion of  literature  by  the  colored  people  in  this  country 
involves  more  than  supplying  information  that  is  lacking. 
It  is  a  matter  which  has  a  direct  bearing  on  the  most 
vital  of  American  problems. 

A  people  may  become  great  through  many  means,  but 
there  is  only  one  measure  by  which  its  greatness  is  recog- 
nized and  acknowledged.  The  final  measure  of  the  great- 
ness of  all  peoples  is  the  amount  and  standard  of  the 
literature  and  art  they  have  produced.  The  world  does 
not  know  that  a  people  is  great  until  that  people  pro- 
duces great  literature  and  art.  No  people  that  has  pro- 
duced great  literature  and  art  has  ever  been  looked  upon 
by  the  world  as  distinctly  inferior. 

The  status  of  the  Negro  in  the  United  States  is  more 
a  question  of  national  mental  attitude  toward  the  race 
than  of  actual  conditions.  And  nothing  will  do  more 
to  change  that  mental  attitude  and  raise  his  status  than 
a  demonstration  of  intellectual  parity  by  the  Negro 
through  the  production  of  literature  and  art. 


viii  Preface 

Is  there  likelihood  that  the  American  Negro  will  be 
able  to  do  this?  There  is,  for  the  good  reason  that  he 
possesses  the  Innate  powers.  He  has  the  emotional  en- 
dowment, the  originality  and  artistic  conception,  and, 
what  is  more  important,  the  power  of  creating  that  which 
has  universal  appeal  and  influence. 

I  make  here  what  may  appear  to  be  a  more  startling 
statement  by  saying  that  the  Negro  has  already  proved 
the  possession  of  these  powers  by  being  the  creator  of  the 
only  things  artistic  that  have  yet  sprung  from  American 
soil  and  been  universally  acknowledged  as  distinctive 
American  products. 

These  creations  by  the  American  Negro  may  be 
summed  up  under  four  heads.  The  first  two  are  the 
Uncle  Remus  stories,  which  were  collected  by  Joel  Chand- 
ler Harris,  and  the  "spirituals"  or  slave  songs,  to  which 
the  Fisk  Jubilee  Singers  made  the  public  and  the  musi- 
cians of  both  the  United  States  and  Europe  listen.  The 
Uncle  Remus  stories  constitute  the  greatest  body  of  folk- 
lore that  America  has  produced,  and  the  "spirituals"  the 
greatest  body  of  folk-song.  I  shall  speak  of  the  "spir- 
ituals" later  because  they  are  more  than  folk-songs,  for  in 
them  the  Negro  sounded  the  depths,  if  he  did  not  scale 
the  heights,  of  music. 

The  other  two  creations  are  the  Cakewalk  and  ragtime. 
We  do  not  need  to  go  very  far  back  to  remember  when 
cakewalking  was  the  rage  in  the  United  States,  Europe 
and  South  America.  Society  in  this  country  and  royalty 
abroad  spent  time  in  practicing  the  intricate  steps.  Paris 
pronounced  it  the  "poetry  of  motion."  The  popularity  of 
the  Cakewalk  passed   away    but  its   influence   remained. 


Preface  ix 

The  influence  can  be  seen  to-day  on  any  American  stage 
where   there  is   dancing. 

The  influence  which  the  Negro  has  exercised  on  the 
art  of  dancing  in  this  country  has  been  almost  absolute. 
For  generations  the  *'buck  and  wing"  and  the  "stop-time" 
dances,  which  are  strictly  Negro,  have  been  familiar  to 
American  theatre  audiences.  A  few  years  ago  the  public 
discovered  the  "turkey  trot,"  the  "eagle  rock,"  "ballin'  the 
jack,"  and  several  other  varieties  that  started  the  modern 
dance  craze.  These  dances  were  quickly  followed  by  the 
"tango,"  a  dance  originated  by  the  Negroes  of  Cuba  and 
later  transplanted  to  South  America.  (This  fact  is 
attested  by  no  less  authority  than  Vincente  Blasco  Ibanez 
in  his  "Four  Horsemen  of  the  Apocalypse.")  Half  the 
floor  space  in  the  country  was  then  turned  over  to  dancing, 
and  highly  paid  exponents  sprang  up  everywhere.  The 
most  noted,  Mr.  Vernon  Castle,  and,  by  the  way,  an 
Englishman,  never  danced  except  to  the  music  of  a  colored 
band,  and  he  never  failed  to  state  to  his  audiences  that 
most  of  his  dances  had  long  been  done  by  "your  colored 
people,"  as  he  put  it. 

Any  one  who  witnesses  a  musical  production  in  which 
there  is  dancing  cannot  fail  to  notice  the  Negro  stamp  on 
all  the  movements;  a  stamp  which  even  the  great  vogue 
of  Russian  dances  that  swept  the  country  about  the  time 
of  the  popular  dance  craze  could  not  afFect.  That  pecu- 
liar swaying  of  the  shoulders  which  you  see  done  every- 
where by  the  blond  girls  of  the  chorus  is  nothing  more 
than  a  movement  from  the  Negro  dance  referred  to  above, 
the  "eagle  rock."  Occasionally  the  movement  takes  on 
a  suggestion  of  the,  now  outlawed,  "shimmy." 


X  Preface 

As  for  Ragtime,  I  go  straight  to  the  statement  that 
it  is  the  one  artistic  production  by  which  America  is 
known  the  world  over.  It  has  been  all-conquering. 
Everywhere  it  is  hailed  as  "American  music." 

For  a  dozen  years  or  so  there  has  been  a  steady  tend- 
ency to  divorce  Ragtime  from  the  Negro;  in  fact,  to 
take  from  him  the  credit  of  having  originated  it.  Prob- 
ably the  younger  people  of  the  present  generation  do 
not  know  that  Ragtime  is  of  Negro  origin.  The  change 
wrought  in  Ragtime  and  the  way  in  which  it  is  accepted 
by  the  country  have  been  brought  about  chiefly  through 
the  change  which  has  gradually  been  made  in  the  words 
and  stories  accompanying  the  music.  Once  the  text  of 
all  Ragtime  songs  was  written  in  Negro  dialect,  and  was 
about  Negroes  in  the  cabin  or  in  the  cotton  field  or  on 
the  levee  or  at  a  jubilee  or  on  Sixth  Avenue  or  at  a  ball, 
and  about  their  love  affairs.  To-day,  only  a  small  pro- 
portion of  Ragtime  songs  relate  at  all  to  the  Negro.  The 
truth  is.  Ragtime  is  now  national  rather  than  racial.  But 
that  does  not  abolish  in  any  way  the  claim  of  the  Ameri- 
can Negro  as  its  originator. 

Ragtime  music  was  originated  by  colored  piano  players 
in  the  questionable  resorts  of  St.  Louis,  Memphis,  and 
other  Mississippi  River  towns.  These  men  did  not  know 
any  more  about  the  theory  of  music  than  they  did  about 
the  theory  of  the  universe.  They  were  guided  by  their 
natural  musical  instinct  and  talent,  but  above  all  by  the 
Negro's  extraordinary  sense  of  rhythm.  Any  one  who  is 
familiar  with  Ragtime  may  note  that  its  chief  charm  is 
not   in  melody,   but   in   rhythms.     These  players  often 


Preface  xi 

improvised  crude  and,  at  times,  vulgar  words  to  fit  the 
music.    This  was  the  beginning  of  the  Ragtime  song. 

Ragtime  music  got  its  first  popular  hearing  at  Chicago 
during  the  world's  fair  in  that  city.  From  Chicago  it 
made  its  way  to  New  York,  and  then  started  on  its  uni- 
versal triumph. 

The  earliest  Ragtime  songs,  like  Topsy,  "jes*  grew." 
Some  of  these  earliest  songs  were  taken  down  by  white 
men,  the  words  slightly  altered  or  changed,  and  published 
under  the  names  of  the  arrangers.  They  sprang  into  im- 
mediate popularity  and  earned  small  fortunes.  The  first 
to  become  widely  known  was  "The  Bully,"  a  levee  song 
which  had  been  long  used  by  roustabouts  along  the  Mis- 
sissippi. It  was  introduced  in  New  York  by  Miss  May 
Irwin,  and  gained  instant  popularity.  Another  one  of 
these  "jes*  grew"  songs  was  one  which  for  a  while  dis- 
puted for  place  with  Yankee  Doodle;  perhaps,  disputes 
it  even  to-day.  That  song  was  "A  Hot  Time  in  the  Old 
Town  To-night";  introduced  and  made  popular  by  the 
colored  regimental  bands  during  the  Spanish-American 
War. 

Later  there  came  along  a  number  of  colored  men  who 
were  able  to  transcribe  the  old  songs  and  write  original 
ones.  I  was,  about  that  time,  writing  words  to  music 
for  the  music  show  stage  in  New  York.  I  was  collabo- 
rating with  my  brother,  J.  Rosamond  Johnson,  and  the 
late  Bob  Cole.  I  remember  that  we  appropriated  about 
the  last  one  of  the  old  "jes'  grew"  songs.  It  was  a  song 
which  had  been  sung  for  years  all  through  the  South. 
The  words  were  unprintable,  but  the  tune  was  irresistible, 
and  belonged  to  nobody.    We  took  it,  re-wrote  the  verses, 


Xll 


Preface 


telling  an  entirely  different  story  from  the  original,  left 
the  chorus  as  it  was,  and  published  the  song,  at  first  under 
the  name  of  *'Will  Handy."  It  became  very  popular  with 
college  boys,  especially  at  football  games,  and  perhaps 
still  is.    The  song  was,  "Oh,  Didn't  He  Ramble!" 

In  the  beginning,  and  for  quite  a  while,  almost  all  of 
the  Ragtime  songs  that  were  deliberately  composed  were 
the  work  of  colored  writers.  Now,  the  colored  composers, 
even  in  this  particular  field,  are  greatly  outnumbered  by 
the  white. 

The  reader  might  be  curious  to  know  if  the  "jes*  grew" 
songs  have  ceased  to  grow.  No,  they  have  not;  they  are 
growing  all  the  time.  The  country  has  lately  been  flooded 
with  several  varieties  of  "The  Blues."  These  "Blues," 
too,  had  their  origin  In  Memphis,  and  the  towns  along 
the  Mississippi.  They  are  a  sort  of  lament  of  a  lover 
who  is  feeling  "blue"  over  the  loss  of  his  sweetheart.  The 
"Blues"  of  Memphis  have  been  adulterated  so  much  on 
Broadway  that  they  have  lost  their  pristine  hue.  But 
whenever  you  hear  a  piece  of  music  which  has  a  strain 
like  this  in  it: 


you  will  know  you  are  listening  to  something  which  be- 
longed originally  to  Beale  Avenue,  Memphis,  Tennessee. 


Preface  xiii 

The  original  "Memphis  Blues,"  so  far  as  it  can  be  cred- 
ited to  a  composer,  must  be  credited  to  Mr.  W.  C.  Handy, 
a  colored  musician  of  Memphis. 

As  illustrations  of  the  genuine  Ragtime  song  in  the 
making,  I  quote  the  words  of  two  that  were  popular  with 
the  Southern  colored  soldiers  in  France.  Here  is  the 
first: 

"Mah  mammy's  lyin'  in  her  grave, 

Mah  daddy  done  run  away, 
Mah  sister's  married  a  gamblin'  man, 

An'  I've  done  gone  astray. 
Yes,  I've  done  gone  astray,  po'  boy. 

An'  I've  done  gone  astray, 
Mah  sister's  married  a  gamblin'  man. 

An'  I've  done  gone  astray,  po'  boy." 

These  lines  are  crude,  but  they  contain  something  of 
real  poetry,  of  that  elusive  thing  which  nobody  can  define 
and  that  you  can  only  tell  that  it  is  there  when  you  feel 
it.  You  cannot  read  these  lines  without  becoming  reflec- 
tive and  feeling  sorry  for  "Po*  Boy." 

Now,  take  in  this  word  picture  of  utter  dejection : 


"I'm  jes*  as  misabul  as  I  can  be, 
I'm  unhappy  even  if  I  am  free, 
I'm  feelin'  down,  I'm  feelin'  blue; 
I  wander  'round,  don't  know  what  to  do. 
I'm  go'n  lay  mah  haid  on  de  railroad  line. 
Let  de  B.  &  O.  come  and  pacify  mah  min'." 


These  lines  are,  no  doubt,  one  of  the  many  versions 
of  the  famous  "Blues."  They  are  also  crude,  but  they 
go  straight  to  the  mark.  The  last  two  lines  move  with 
the  swiftness  of  all  great  tragedy. 


XIV  Treface 

In  spite  of  the  bans  which  musicians  and  music  teachers 
have  placed  on  it,  the  people  still  demand  and  enjoy 
Ragtime.  In  fact,  there  is  not  a  corner  of  the  civilized 
world  in  which  it  is  not  known  and  liked.  And  this 
proves  its  originality,  for  if  it  were  an  imitation,  the 
people  of  Europe,  at  least,  would  not  have  found  it  a 
novelty.  And  it  is  proof  of  a  more  important  thing,  it 
is  proof  that  Ragtime  possesses  the  vital  spark,  the  power 
to  appeal  universally,  without  which  any  artistic  produc- 
tion, no  matter  how  approved  its  form  may  be,  is  dead. 

Of  course,  there  are  those  who  will  deny  that  Ragtime 
is  an  artistic  production.  American  musicians,  especially, 
instead  of  investigating  Ragtime,  dismiss  it  with  a  con- 
temptuous word.  But  this  has  been  the  course  of  scholas- 
ticism in  every  branch  of  art.  Whatever  new  thing  the 
people  like  is  pooh-poohed;  whatever  is  popular  is  re- 
garded as  not  worth  while.  The  fact  is,  nothing  great 
or  enduring  in  music  has  ever  sprung  full-fledged  from 
the  brain  of  any  master;  the  best  he  gives  the  world  he 
gathers  from  the  hearts  of  the  people,  and  runs  it  through 
the  alembic  of  his  genius. 

Ragtime  deserves  serious  attention.  There  is  a  lot  of 
colorless  and  vicious  imitation,  but  there  is  enough  that 
is  genuine.  In  one  composition  alone,  "The  Memphis 
Blues,"  the  musician  will  find  not  only  great  melodic 
beauty,  but  a  polyphonic  structure  that  is  amazing. 

It  is  obvious  that  Ragtime  has  influenced,  and  in  a 
large  measure,  become  our  popular  music;  but  not  many 
would  know  that  it  has  influenced  even  our  religious 
music.  Those  who  are  familiar  with  gospel  hymns  can 
at  once  see  this  influence  if  they  will  compare  the  songs 


Preface  xv 

of  thirty  years  ago,  such  as  "In  the  Sweet  Bye  and  Bye," 
"The  Ninety  and  Nine,"  etc.,  with  the  up-to-date,  synco- 
pated tunes  that  are  sung  in  Sunday  Schools,  Christian 
Endeavor  Societies,  Y.M.C.A.'s  and  like  gatherings 
to-day. 

Ragtime  has  not  only  influenced  American  music,  it 
has  influenced  American  life;  indeed,  it  has  saturated 
American  life.  It  has  become  the  popular  medium  for 
our  national  expression  musically.  And  who  can  say  that 
it  does  not  express  the  blare  and  jangle  and  the  surge,  too, 
of  our  national  spirit? 

Any  one  who  doubts  that  there  is  a  peculiar  heel- 
tickling,  smile-provoking,  joy-awakening,  response-com- 
pelling charm  in  Ragtime  needs  only  to  hear  a  skillful 
performer  play  the  genuine  article,  needs  only  to  listen 
to  its  bizarre  harmonies,  its  audacious  resolutions  often 
consisting  of  an  abrupt  jump  from  one  key  to  another, 
its  intricate  rhythms  in  which  the  accents  fall  in  the 
most  unexpected  places  but  in  which  the  fundamental 
beat  is  never  lost  in  order  to  be  convinced.  I  believe 
it  has  its  place  as  well  as  the  music  which  draws  from 
us  sighs  and  tears. 

Now,  these  dances  which  I  have  referred  to  and  Rag- 
time music  may  be  lower  forms  of  art,  but  they  are  evi- 
dence of  a  power  that  will  some  day  be  applied  to  the 
higher  forms.  And  even  now  we  need  not  stop  at  the 
Negro's  accomplishment  through  these  lower  forms.  In 
the  "spirituals,"  or  slave  songs,  the  Negro  has  given 
America  not  only  its  only  folksongs,  but  a  mass  of  noble 
music.     I  never  think  of  this  music  but  that  I  am  struck 


XVI 


Preface 


by  the  wonder,  the  miracle  of  its  production.  How  did 
the  men  who  originated  these  songs  manage  to  do  it? 
The  sentiments  are  easily  accounted  for;  they  are,  for  the 
most  part,  taken  from  the  Bible.  But  the  melodies,  where 
did  they  come  from?  Some  of  them  so  weirdly  sweet, 
and  others  so  wonderfully  strong.  Take,  for  instance, 
**Go  Down,  Moses";  I  doubt  that  there  is  a  stronger 
theme  in  the  whole  musical  literature  of  the  world. 


^¥^q^r^^^^^ 


I 
Oppressed  so  hard  theycoald  not  stand.Let  my  people  go.    Go  down,  Mo-ses, 


way  down  in   E-gypt  land,      Tell  ole    Pha-raoh,  Let  my  people   go. 


It  is  to  be  noted  that  whereas  the  chief  characteristic 
of  Ragtime  is  rhythm,  the  chief  characteristic  of  the 
"spirituals"  is  melody.  The  melodies  of  "Steal  Away  to 
Jesus,**  "Swing  Low  Sweet  Chariot,"  "Nobody  Knows 
de  Trouble  I  See,"  "I  Couldn't  Hear  Nobody  Pray," 
^'Deep  River,"  "O,  Freedom  Over  Me,"  and  many  others 
of  these  songs  possess  a  beauty  that  is — what  shall  I  say? 
poignant.     In    the    riotous    rhythms    of    Ragtime    the 


Preface  xvli 

Negro  expressed  his  irrepressible  buoyancy,  his  keen 
response  to  the  sheer  joy  of  living;  in  the  "spirituals"  he 
voiced  his  sense  of  beauty  and  his  deep  religious  feeling. 

Naturally,  not  as  much  can  be  said  for  the  words  of 
these  songs  as  for  the  music.  Most  of  the  songs  are  reli- 
gious. Some  of  them  are  songs  expressing  faith  and  en- 
durance and  a  longing  for  freedom.  In  the  religious 
songs,  the  sentiments  and  often  the  entire  lines  are  taken 
bodily  from  the  Bible.  However,  there  is  no  doubt  that 
some  of  these  religious  songs  have  a  meaning  apart  from 
the  Biblical  text.  It  is  evident  that  the  opening  lines  of 
"Go  Down,  Moses," 

"Go   down,   Moses, 

'Way  down  in  Egypt  land; 
Tell  old  Pharoah, 
Let  ray  people  go." 

have  a  significance  beyond  the  bondage  of  Israel  in  Egypt. 
The  bulk  of  the  lines  to  these  songs,  as  is  the  case  in 
all  communal  music,  is  made  up  of  choral  iteration  and 
incremental  repetition  of  the  leader's  lines.  If  the  words 
are  read,  this  constant  iteration  and  repetition  are  found 
to  be  tiresome;  and  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  lines 
themselves  are  often  very  trite.  And,  yet,  there  is  fre- 
quently revealed  a  flash  of  real,  primitive  poetry.  I  give 
the  following  examples: 

"Sometimes  I  feel  like  an  eagle  in  de  air." 

"You  may  bury  me  in  de  East, 
You  may  bury  me  in  de  West, 
But  I'll  hear  de  trumpet  sound 
In-a  dat  mornin'." 


xviii  Preface 

"I  know  de  moonlight,  I  know  de  starlight; 

I  lay  dis  body  down. 
I  walic  in  de  moonlight,  I  walk  in  de  starlight; 

I  lay  dis  body  down. 
I  know  de  graveyard,  I  know  de  graveyard, 

When  I  lay  dis  body  down. 
I  walk  in  de  graveyard,  I  walk  troo  de  graveyard 

To  lay  dis  body  down. 

"I  lay  in  de  grave  an*  stretch  out  my  arms; 

I  lay  dis  body  down. 
I  go  to  de  judgment  in  de  evenin'  of  de  day 

When  I  lay  dis  body  down. 
An'  my  soul  an'  yo'  soul  will  meet  in  de  day 

When  I  lay  dis  body  down." 


Regarding  the  line,  *'I  lay  in  de  grave  an*  stretch  out 
my  arms,"  Col.  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson  of  Bos- 
ton, one  of  the  first  to  give  these  slave  songs  serious  study, 
said:  "Never  it  seems  to  me,  since  man  first  lived  and 
suffered,  w^as  his  infinite  longing  for  peace  uttered  more 
plaintively  than  in  that  line." 

These  Negro  folksongs  constitute  a  vast  mine  of  mate- 
rial that  has  been  neglected  almost  absolutely.  The  only 
white  v^riters  who  have  in  recent  years  given  adequate 
attention  and  study  to  this  music,  that  I  know  of,  are 
Mr.  H.  E.  Krehbiel  and  Mrs.  Natalie  Curtis  Burlin. 
We  have  our  native  composers  denying  the  worth  and  im- 
portance of  this  music,  and  trying  to  manufacture  grand 
opera  out  of  so-called  Indian  themes. 

But  there  is  a  great  hope  for  the  development  of  this 
music,  and  that  hope  is  the  Negro  himself.  A  worthy 
beginning  has  already  been  made  by  Burleigh,  Cook,  John- 
son, and  Dett.     And  there  will  yet  come  great  Negro 


Preface  xix 

composers  who  will  take  this  music  and  voice  through 
it  not  only  the  soul  of  their  race,  but  the  soul  of  America. 
And  does  it  not  seem  odd  that  this  greatest  gift  of 
the  Negro  has  been  the  most  neglected  of  all  he  pos- 
sesses? Money  and  effort  have  been  expended  upon  his 
development  in  every  direction  except  this.  This  gift  has 
been  regarded  as  a  kind  of  side  show,  something  for 
occasional  exhibition;  wherein  it  is  the  touchstone,  it  is 
the  magic  thing,  it  is  that  by  which  the  Negro  can  bridge 
all  chasms.  ,No  persons,  however  hostile,  can  listen  to 
Negroes  singing  this  wonderful  music  without  having 
their  hostility  melted  down. 

This  power  of  the  Negro  to  suck  up  the  national  spirit 
from  the  soil  and  create  something  artistic  and  original, 
which,  at  the  same  time,  possesses  the  note  of  universal 
appeal,  is  due  to  a  remarkable  racial  gift  of  adaptability; 
it  is  more  than  adaptability,  it  is  a  transfusive  quality. 
And  the  Negro  has  exercised  this  transfusive  quality  not 
only  here  in  America,  where  the  race  lives  in  large  num- 
bers, but  in  European  countries,  where  the  number  has 
been  almost  infinitesimal. 

Is  it  not  curious  to  know  that  the  greatest  poet  of 
Russia  is  Alexander  Pushkin,  a  man  of  African  descent; 
that  the  greatest  romancer  of  France  is  Alexander  Dumas, 
a  man  of  African  descent;  and  that  one  of  the  greatest 
musicians  of  England  is  Coleridge-Taylor,  a  man  of 
African  descent? 

The  fact  is  fairly  well  known  that  the  father  of 
Dumas  was  a  Negro  of  the  French  West  Indies,  and  that 
the  father  of  Coleridge-Taylor  was  a  native-born  African ; 


XX  Preface 

but  the  facts  concerning  Pushkin's  African  ancestry  are 
not  so  familiar. 

When  Peter  the  Great  was  Czar  of  Russia,  some  po- 
tentate presented  him  with  a  full-blooded  Negro  of  gigan- 
tic size.  Peter,  the  most  eccentric  ruler  of  modern  times, 
dressed  this  Negro  up  in  soldier  clothes,  christened  him 
Hannibal,  and  made  him  a  special  body-guard. 

But  Hannibal  had  more  than  size,  he  had  brain  and 
ability.  He  not  only  looked  picturesque  and  imposing  in 
soldier  clothes,  he  showed  that  he  had  in  him  the  making 
of  a  real  soldier.  Peter  recognized  this,  and  eventually 
made  him  a  general.  He  afterwards  ennobled  him,  and 
Hannibal,  later,  married  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  Russian 
court.  This  same  Hannibal  was  great-grandfather  of 
Pushkin,  the  national  poet  of  Russia,  the  man  who  bears 
the  same  relation  to  Russian  literature  that  Shakespeare 
bears  to  English  literature. 

I  know  the  question  naturally  arises:  If  out  of  the  few 
Negroes  who  have  lived  in  France  there  came  a  Dumas; 
and  out  of  the  few  Negroes  who  have  lived  in  England 
there  came  a  Coleridge-Taylor ;  and  if  from  the  man  who 
was  at  the  time,  probably,  the  only  Negro  in  Russia  there 
sprang  that  country's  national  poet,  why  have  not  the  mil- 
lions of  Negroes  in  the  United  States  with  all  the  emo- 
tional and  artistic  endowment  claimed  for  them  produced 
a  Dumas,  or  a  Coleridge-Taylor,  or  a  Pushkin  ? 

The  question  seems  difficult,  but  there  is  an  answer. 
The  Negro  in  the  United  States  is  consuming  all  of  his 
intellectual  energy  in  this  gruelling  race-struggle.  And 
the  same  statement  may  be  made  in  a  general  way  about 
the  white  South.    Why  does  not  the  white  South  produce 


Preface  xxi 

literature  and  art?  The  white  South,  too,  is  consuming 
all  of  its  intellectual  energy  in  this  lamentable  conflict. 
Nearly  all  of  the  mental  efforts  of  the  white  South  run 
through  one  narrow  channel.  The  life  of  every  Southern 
white  man  and  all  of  his  activities  are  impassably  limited 
by  the  ever  present  Negro  problem.  And  that  is  why,  as 
Mr.  H.  L.  Mencken  puts  it,  in  all  that  vast  region,  with 
its  thirty  or  forty  million  people  and  its  territory  as 
large  as  a  half  a  dozen  Frances  or  Germanys,  there  is  not 
a  single  poet,  not  a  serious  historian,  not  a  creditable  com- 
poser, not  a  critic  good  or  bad,  not  a  dramatist  dead  or 
alive. 

But,  even  so,  the  American  Negro  has  accomplished 
something  In  pure  literature.  The  list  of  those  who  have 
done  so  would  be  surprising  both  by  its  length  and  the 
excellence  of  the  achievements.  One  of  the  great  books 
written  in  this  country  since  the  Civil  War  is  the  work 
of  a  colored  man,  "The  Souls  of  Black  Folk,"  by  W.  E.  B. 
Du  Bois. 

Such  a  list  begins  with  Phlllis  Wheatley.  In  1761 
a  slave  ship  landed  a  cargo  of  slaves  in  Boston.  Among 
them  was  a  little  girl  seven  or  eight  years  of  age.  She 
attracted  the  attention  of  John  Wheatley,  a  wealthy  gen- 
tleman of  Boston,  who  purchased  her  as  a  servant  for  his 
wife.  Mrs.  Wheatley  was  a  benevolent  woman.  She 
noticed  the  girl's  quick  mind  and  determined  to  give  her 
opportunity  for  its  development.  Twelve  years  later 
Phillis  published  a  volume  of  poems.  The  book  v/as 
brought  out  in  London,  where  Phillis  was  for  several 
months  an  object  of  great  curiosity  and  attention. 


xxii  Preface 

Phlllis  Wheatley  has  never  been  given  her  rightful 
place  in  American  literature.  By  some  sort  of  con- 
spiracy she  is  kept  out  of  most  of  the  books,  especially 
the  text-books  on  literature  used  in  the  schools.  Of 
course,  she  is  not  a  great  American  poet — and  in  her  day 
there  were  no  great  American  poets — 'but  she  is  an 
important  American  poet.  Her  importance,  if  for  no 
other  reason,  rests  on  the  fact  that,  save  one,  she  is  the 
first  in  order  of  time  of  all  the  women  poets  of  America. 
And  she  is  among  the  first  of  all  American  poets  to  issue 
a  volume. 

It  seems  strange  that  the  books  generally  give  space 
to  a  mention  of  Urian  Oakes,  President  of  Harvard 
College,  and  to  quotations  from  the  crude  and  lengthy 
elegy  which  he  published  in  1667;  and  print  examples 
from  the  execrable  versified  version  of  the  Psalms  made 
by  the  New  England  divines,  and  yet  deny  a  place  to 
Phillis  Wheatley. 

Here  are  the  opening  lines  from  the  elegy  by  Oakes, 
which  is  quoted  from  in  most  of  the  books  on  American 
literature : 

"Reader,  I  am  no  poet,  but  I  grieve. 
Behold  here  what  that  passion  can  do, 
That  forced  a  verse  without  Apollo's  leave, 
And  whether  the  learned  sisters  would  or  no." 

There  was  no  need  for  Urian  to  admit  what  his  handi- 
work declared.  But  this  from  the  versified  Psalms  is 
still  worse,  yet  it  is  found  in  the  books: 

"The  Lord's  song  sing  can  we?  being 
in  stranger's  land,  then  let 
lose  her  skill  my  right  hand  if  I 
Jerusalem  forget." 


Preface  xxiii 

Anne  Bradstreet  preceded  Phillis  Wheatley  by  a  little 
over  twenty  years.  She  published  her  volume  of  poems, 
"The  Tenth  Muse,"  in  1750.  Let  us  strike  a  com- 
parison between  the  two.  Anne  Bradstreet  was  a  wealthy, 
cultivated  Puritan  girl,  the  daughter  of  Thomas  Dudley, 
Governor  of  Bay  Colony.  Phillis,  as  we  know,  was  a 
Negro  slave  girl  born  in  Africa.  Let  us  take  them  both 
at  their  best  and  in  the  same  vein.  The  following  stanza 
is  from  Anne's  poem  entitled  "Contemplation": 

"While  musing  thus  with  contemplation  fed, 
And  thousand  fancies  buzzing  in  my  brain, 
The  sweet  tongued  Philomel  percht  o'er  my  head, 
And  chanted  forth  a  most  melodious  strain, 
Which  rapt  me  so  with  wonder  and  delight, 
I  judged  my  hearing  better  than  my  sight, 
And  wisht  me  wings  with  her  awhile  to  take  ray  flight." 

And  the  following  is  from  Phillis'  poem  entitled 
^'Imagination" : 

"Imagination!   who  can   sing  thy  force? 
Or  who  describe  the  swiftness  of  thy  course? 
Soaring  through  air  to  find  the  bright  abode, 
The  empyreal  palace  of  the  thundering  God, 
We  on  thy  pinions  can  surpass  the  wind, 
And  leave  the  rolling  universe  behind, 
From  star  to  star  the  mental  optics  rove, 
Measure  the  skies,  and  range  the  realms  above. 
There  in  one  view  we  grasp  the  mighty  whole, 
Or  with  new  worlds  amaze  the  unbounded  soul." 

We  do  not  think  the  black  woman  suffers  much  by  com- 
parison with  the  white.  Thomas  Jefferson  said  of  Phillis : 
"Religion  has  produced  a  Phillis  Wheatley,  but  it  could 
not  produce  a  poet;  her  poems  are  beneath  contempt." 
It  is  quite  likely  that  Jefferson's  criticism  was  directed 
more  against  religion  than  against  Phillis'  poetry.     On 


xxiv  Preface 

the  other  hand,  General  George  Washington  wrote  her 
with  his  own  hand  a  letter  in  which  he  thanked  her 
for  a  poem  which  she  had  dedicated  to  him.  He,  later, 
received  her  with  marked  courtesy  at  his  camp  at  Cam- 
bridge. 

It  appears  certain  that  Phillis  was  the  first  person  to 
apply  to  George  Washington  the  phrase,  ''First  in  peace." 
The  phrase  occurs  in  her  poem  addressed  to  "His  Excel- 
lency, General  George  Washington,"  written  in  1775. 
The  encomium,  "First  in  war,  first  in  peace,  first  in  the 
hearts  of  his  countrymen"  was  originally  used  in  the  reso- 
lutions presented  to  Congress  on  the  death  of  Washing- 
ton, December,  1799. 

Phillis  Wheatley's  poetry  is  the  poetry  of  the  Eight- 
eenth Century.  She  wrote  when  Pope  and  Gray  were 
supreme;  it  is  easy  to  see  that  Pope  was  her  model.  Had 
she  come  under  the  influence  of  Wordsworth,  Byron  or 
Keats  or  Shelley,  she  would  have  done  greater  work.  As 
it  is,  her  work  must  not  be  judged  by  the  work  and  stand- 
ards of  a  later  day,  but  by  the  work  and  standards  of 
her  own  day  and  her  own  contemporaries.  By  this  method 
of  criticism  she  stands  out  as  one  of  the  important  char- 
acters in  the  making  of  American  literature,  without  any 
allowances  for  her  sex  or  her  antecedents. 

According  to  "A  Bibliographical  Checklist  of  Ameri- 
can Negro  Poetry,"  compiled  by  Mr.  Arthur  A.  Schom- 
burg,  more  than  one  hundred  Negroes  in  the  United 
States  have  published  volumes  of  poetry  ranging  in  size 
from  pamphlets  to  books  of  from  one  hundred  to  three 
hundred  pages.     About  thirty  of  these  writers  fill  in  the 


Preface  xxv 

gap  between  Phillis  Wheatley  and  Paul  Laurence  Dun- 
bar. Just  here  it  is  of  interest  to  note  that  a  Negro  wrote 
and  published  a  poem  before  Phillis  Wheatley  arrived  in 
this  country  from  Africa.  He  was  Jupiter  Hammon,  a 
slave  belonging  to  a  Mr.  Lloyd  of  Queens- Village,  Long 
Island.  In  1760  Hammon  published  a  poem,  eighty-eight 
lines  in  length,  entitled  "An  Evening  Thought,  Salva- 
tion by  Christ,  with  Penettential  Cries."  In  1788  he 
published  "An  Address  to  Miss  Phillis  Wheatley,  Ethio- 
pian Poetess  in  Boston,  who  came  from  Africa  at  eight 
years  of  age,  and  soon  became  acquainted  with  the  Gospel 
of  Jesus  Christ."  These  two  poems  do  not  include  all 
that  Hammon  wrote. 

The  poets  between  Phillis  Wheatley  and  Dunbar  must 
be  considered  more  in  the  light  of  what  they  attempted 
than  of  what  they  accomplished.  Many  of  them  showed 
marked  talent,  but  barely  a  half  dozen  of  them  demon- 
strated even  mediocre  mastery  of  technique  in  the  use 
of  poetic  material  and  forms.  And  yet  there  are  several 
names  that  deserve  mention.  George  M.  Horton,  Frances 
E.  Harper,  James  M.  Bell  and  Alberry  A.  Whitman,  all 
merit  consideration  when  due  allowances  are  made  for 
their  limitations  in  education,  training  and  general  cul- 
ture. The  limitations  of  Horton  were  greater  than  those 
of  either  of  the  others;  he  was  born  a  slave  in  North 
Carolina  in  1797,  and  as  a  young  man  began  to  compose 
poetry  without  being  able  to  write  it  down.  Later  he 
received  some  instruction  from  professors  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  North  Carolina,  at  which  institution  he  was 
employed  as  a  janitor.  He  published  a  volume  of  poems, 
"The  Hope  of  Liberty,"  in  1829. 


xxvi  Preface 

Mrs.  Harper,  Bell  and  Whitman  would  stand  out  if 
only  for  the  reason  that  each  of  them  attempted  sustained 
work.  Mrs.  Harper  published  her  first  volume  of  poems 
in  1854,  but  later  she  published  "Moses,  a  Story  of  the 
Nile,"  a  poem  which  ran  to  52  closely  printed  pages. 
Bell  in  1864  published  a  poem  of  28  pages  in  celebration 
of  President  Lincoln's  Emancipation  Proclamation.  In 
1870  he  published  a  poem  of  32  pages  in  celebration  of 
the  ratification  of  the  Fifteenth  Amendment  to  the  Con- 
stitution. Whitman  published  his  first  volume  of  poems, 
a  book  of  253  pages,  in  1877;  but  in  1884  he  published 
"The  Rape  of  Florida,"  an  epic  poem  written  in  four 
cantos  and  done  in  the  Spenserian  stanza,  and  which  ran 
to  97  closely  printed  pages.  The  poetry  of  both  Mrs. 
Harper  and  of  Whitman  had  a  large  degree  of  popularity; 
one  of  Mrs.  Harper's  books  went  through  more  than 
twenty  editions. 

Of  these  four  poets,  it  is  Whitman  who  reveals  not 
only  the  greatest  imagination  but  also  the  more  skillful 
workmanship.  His  lyric  power  at  its  best  may  be  judged 
from  the  following  stanza  from  the  "Rape  of  Florida": 


"  'Come  now,  my  love,  the  moon  is  on  the  lake ; 
Upon  the  waters  is  my  light  canoe; 
Come  with  me,  love,  and  gladsome  oars  shall  make 
A  music  on  the  parting  wave  for  you. 
Come  o'er  the  waters  deep  and  dark  and  blue; 
Come  where  the  lilies  in  the  marge  have  sprung, 
Come  with  me,  love,  for  Oh,  my  love  is  true!' 
This  is  the  song  that  on  the  lake  was  sung, 
The  boatman  sang  it  when  his  heart  was  young." 

Some  idea  of  Whitman's  capacity  for  dramatic  nar- 
ration may  be  gained  from  the  following  lines  taken  from 


Preface  xxvii 

"Not  a  Man,  and  Yet  a  Man,"  a  poem  of  even  greater 
length  than  "The  Rape  of  Florida" : 

"A  flash  of  steely  lightning  from  his  hand, 
Strikes  down  the  groaning  leader  of  the  band; 
Divides  his  startled  comrades,  and  again 
Descending,   leaves  fair  Dora's  captors  slain. 
Her,  seizing  then  within  a  strong  embrace, 
Out  in  the  dark  he  wheels  his  flying  pace; 

He  speaks  not,  but  with  stalwart  tenderness 
Her  swelling  bosom  firm  to  his  doth  press; 
Springs  like  a  stag  that  flees  the  eager  hound, 
And  like  a  whirlwind  rustles  o'er  the  ground. 
Her  locks  swim  in  dishevelled  wildness  o'er 
His  shoulders,  streaming  to  his  waist  and  more; 
While  on  and  on,  strong  as  a  rolling  flood. 
His  sweeping  footsteps  part  the  silent  wood." 

It  Is  curious  and  Interesting  to  trace  the  growth  of 
Individuality  and  race  consciousness  In  this  group  of  poets. 
Jupiter  Hammon's  verses  were  almost  entirely  religious 
exhortations.  Only  very  seldom  does  Phlllis  Wheatley 
sound  a  native  note.  Four  times  In  single  lines  she  refers 
to  herself  as  "Afrlc's  muse."  In  a  poem  of  admonition 
addressed  to  the  students  at  the  "University  of  Cambridge 
in  New  England"  she  refers  to  herself  as  follows: 

"Ye  blooming  plants  of  human  race  divine, 
An  Ethiop  tells  you  'tis  your  greatest  foe." 

But  one  looks  in  vain  for  some  outburst  or  even  complaint 
against  the  bondage  of  her  people,  for  some  agonizing 
cry  about  her  native  land.  In  two  poems  she  refers 
definitely  to  Africa  as  her  home,  but  In  each  Instance 
there  seems  to  be  under  the  sentiment  of  the  lines  a 
feeling  of  almost  smug  contentment  at  her  own  escape 


xxviii  Preface 

therefrom.  In  the  poem,  "On  Being  Brought  from  Africa 
to  America,"  she  says: 

"  'Twas  mercy  brought  me  from  my  pagan  land, 
Taught  my  benighted  soul  to  understand 
That  there's  a  God  and  there's  a  Saviour  too; 
Once  I  redemption  neither  sought  or  knew. 
Some  view  our  sable  race  with  scornful  eye, 
'Their  color  is  a  diabolic  dye.* 
Remember,  Christians,  Negroes  black  as  Cain, 
May  be  refined,  and  join  th'  angelic  train." 

In  the  poem  addressed  to  the  Earl  of  Dartmouth,  she 
speaks  of  freedom  and  makes  a  reference  to  the  parents 
from  whom  she  was  taken  as  a  child,  a  reference  which 
cannot  but  strike  the  reader  as  rather  unimpassioned : 

"Should  you,  my  lord,  while  you  peruse  my  song. 
Wonder  from  whence  ray  love  of  Freedom  sprung, 
Whence  flow  these  wishes  for  the  common  good. 
By  feeling  hearts  alone  best  understood ; 
I,  young  in  life,  by  seeming  cruel  fate 
Was  snatch'd  from  Afric's  fancy'd  happy  seat; 
What  pangs  excruciating  must  molest, 
What  sorrows  labor  in  my  parents'  breast? 
Steel'd  was  that  soul  and  by  no  misery  mov'd 
That  from  a  father  seiz'd  his  babe  belov'd ; 
Such,  such  my  case.    And  can  I  then  but  pray 
Others  may  never  feel  tyrannic  sway?" 

The  bulk  of  Phillis  Wheatley's  work  consists  of  poems 
addressed  to  people  of  prominence.  Her  book  was  dedi- 
cated to  the  Countess  of  Huntington,  at  whose  house 
she  spent  the  greater  part  of  her  time  while  in  England. 
On  his  repeal  of  the  Stamp  Act,  she  wrote  a  poem  to 
King  George  III,  whom  she  saw  later;  another  poem  she 
wrote  to  the  Earl  of  Dartmouth,  whom  she  knew.  A 
number  of  her  verses  were  addressed  to  other  persons  of 


Preface  '       xxix 

distinction.  Indeed,  it  is  apparent  that  Phillis  was  far 
from  being  a  democrat.  She  was  far  from  being  a  demo- 
crat not  only  in  her  social  ideas  but  also  in  her  political 
ideas;  unless  a  religious  meaning  is  given  to  the  closing 
lines  of  her  ode  to  General  Washington,  she  was  a  decided 
royalist : 

"A  crown,  a  mansion,  and  a  throne  that  shine 
With  gold  unfading,  Washington!  be  thine." 

Nevertheless,  she  was  an  ardent  patriot.  Her  ode  to  Gen- 
eral Washington  (1775),  her  spirited  poem,  "On  Major 
General  Lee"  ( 1776)  and  her  poem,  "Liberty  and  Peace," 
written  in  celebration  of  the  close  of  the  war,  reveal  not 
only  strong  patriotic  feeling  but  an  understanding  of  the 
issues  at  stake.  In  her  poem,  "On  Major  General  Lee," 
she  makes  her  hero  reply  thus  to  the  taunts  of  the  British 
commander  into  whose  hands  he  has  been  delivered 
through  treachery: 

"O  arrogance  of  tongue! 
And  wild  ambition,  ever  prone  to  wrong! 
Believ'st  thou,  chief,  that  armies  such   as  thine 
Can  stretch  in  dust  that  heaven-defended  line?   ■ 
In  vain  allies  may  swarm  from  distant  lands, 
And  demons  aid  in  formidable  bands, 
Great  as  thou  art,  thou  shun'st  the  field  of  fame, 
Disgrace  to  Britain  and  the  British  name! 
When  offer'd  combat  by  the  noble  foe, 
(Foe  to  misrule)  why  did  the  sword  forego 
The   easy  conquest  of  the  rebel-land? 
Perhaps  too  easy  for  thy  martial  hand. 

What  various  causes  to.  the  field  Invite! 
For  plunder  YOU,  and  we  for  freedom  fight, 
Her  cause  divine  with  generous  ardor  fires, 
And  every  bosom  glows  as  she  inspires! 
Already  thousands  of  your  troops  have  fled 
To  the  drear  mansions  of  the  silent  dead: 


XXX  Preface 

Columbia,  too,  beholds  with  streaming  eyes 

Her  heroes  fall — 'tis  freedom's  sacrifice! 

So  wills  the  power  who  with  convulsive  storms 

Shakes  impious  realms,  and  nature's  face  deforms; 

Yet  those  brave  troops,  innum'rous  as  the  sands, 

One  soul  inspires,  one  General  Chief  commands; 

Find  in  your  train  of  boasted  heroes,  one 

To  match  the  praise  of  Godlike  Washington. 

Thrice  happy  Chief  in  whom  the  virtues  join, 

And  heaven  taught  prudence  speaks  the  man  divine." 

What  Phillis  Wheatley  failed  to  achieve  is  due  in  no 
small  degree  to  her  education  and  environment.  Her 
mind  was  steeped  In  the  classics;  her  verses  are  filled 
with  classical  and  mythological  allusions.  She  knew  Ovid 
thoroughly  and  was  familiar  with  other  Latin  authors. 
She  must  have  known  Alexander  Pope  by  heart.  And, 
too,  she  was  reared  and  sheltered  In  a  wealthy  and  cul- 
tured family, — a  wealthy  and  cultured  Boston  family; 
she  never  had  the  opportunity  to  learn  life;  she  never 
found  out  her  own  true  relation  to  life  and  to  her  sur- 
roundings. And  It  should  not  be  forgotten  that  she  was 
only  about  thirty  years  old  when  she  died.  The  impulsion 
or  the  compulsion  that  might  have  driven  her  genius  off 
the  worn  paths,  out  on  a  journey  of  exploration,  Phillis 
Wheatley  never  received.  But,  whatever  her  limitations, 
she  merits  more  than  America  has  accorded  her. 

Horton,  who  was  bom  three  years  after  Phillis  Wheat- 
ley's  death,  expressed  In  all  of  his  poetry  strong  complaint 
at  his  condition  of  slavery  and  a  deep  longing  for  free- 
dom. The  following  verses  are  typical  of  his  style  and  his 
ability : 


"Alas!  and  am  I  born  for  this, 
To  wear  this  slavish  chain? 


Preface  xxxi 


Deprived  of  all  created  bliss, 

Through  hardship,  toil,  and  pain? 

Come,  Liberty!   thou  cheerful  sound, 

Roll  through  my  ravished  ears; 
Come,  let  my  grief  in  joys  be  drowned, 

And  drive  away  my  fears." 

In  Mrs.  Harper  we  find  something  more  than  the 
complaint  and  the  longing  of  Horton.  We  find  an  expres- 
sion of  a  sense  of  wrong  and  injustice.  The  following 
stanzas  are  from  a  poem  addressed  to  the  white  women 
of  America: 

"You  can  sigh  o'er  the  sad-eyed  Armenian 

Who  weeps  in  her  desolate  home. 
You  can  mourn  o'er  the  exile  of  Russia 

From  kindred  and  friends  doomed  to  roam. 

But  hark!  from  our  Southland  are  floating 

Sobs  of  anguish,  murmurs  of  pain, 
And  women  heart-stricken  are  weeping 

O'er  their  tortured  and  slain. 

Have  ye  not,  oh,  my  favored  sisters, 

Just  a  plea,  a  prayer  or  a  tear 
For  mothers  who  dwell  'neath  the  shadows      ' 

Of  agony,  hatred  and  fear? 

Weep  not,  oh  my  well  sheltered  sisters, 

Weep  not  for  the  Negro  alone. 
But  weep  for  your  sons  who  must  gather 

The  crops  which  their  fathers  have  sown." 

Whitman,  In  the  midst  of  "The  Rape  of  Florida,"  a 
poem  In  which  he  related  the  taking  of  the  State  of  Flor- 
ida from  the  Semlnoles,  stops  and  discusses  the  race  ques- 
tion. He  discusses  it  In  many  other  poems;  and  he  dis- 
cusses It  from  many  different  angles.  In  Whitman 
we  find  not  only  an  expression  of  a  sense  of  wrong  and 


xxxii  Preface 

injustice,  but  we  hear  a  note  of  faith  and  a  note  also 
of  defiance.  For  example,  in  the  opening  to  Canto  II  of 
"The  Rape  of  Florida": 


"Greatness  by  nature  cannot  be  entailed; 
It  is  an  office  ending  with  the  man, — 
Sage,  hero,  Saviour,  tho'  the  Sire  ht  hailed. 
The  son  may  reach  obscurity  in  the  van: 
Sublime  achievements  know   no   patent  plan, 
Man's  immortality's  a  book  with  seals, 
And  none  but  God  shall  open — none  else  can — 
But  opened,  it  the  mystery  reveals, — 
Manhood's  conquest  of  man  to  heaven's  respect  appeals. 

"Is  manhood  less  because  man's  face  is  black? 
Let  thunders  of  the  loosened  seals  reply! 
Who  shall  the  rider's  restive  steed  turn  back, 
Or  who  withstand  the   arrows  he  lets  fly 
Between  the  mountains  of  eternity? 
Genius  ride  forth !     Thou  gift  and  torch  of  heav'n ! 
The  mastery  is  kindled  in  thine  eye; 
To  conquest  ride !  thy  bow  of  strength  is  giv'n — 
The  trampled  hordes  of  caste  before  thee  shall  be  driv'n! 


*'  'Tis  hard  to  judge  if  hatred  of  one's  race, 
By  those  who  deem  themselves  superior-born, 
Be  worse  than  that  quiescence  in  disgrace. 
Which  only  merits — and  should  only — scorn. 
Oh,  let  me  see  the  Negro  night  and  morn. 
Pressing  and  fighting  in,  for  place  and  power! 
All  earth  is  place — all  time  th'  auspicious  hour, 
While  heaven  leans  forth  to  look,  oh,  will  he  quail  or  cower? 

"Ah!     I  abhor  his  protest  and  complaint! 
His  pious  looks  and  patience  I  despise! 
He  can't  evade  the  test,  disguised  as  saint; 
The  manly  voice  of  freedom  bids  him  rise, 
And  shake  himself  before  Philistine  eyes! 
And,  like  a  lion  roused,  no  sooner  than 
A  foe  dare  come,  play  all  his  energies. 
And  court  the  fray  with  fury  if  he  can; 
For  hell  itself  respects  a  fearless,  manly  man." 


Preface  xxxiii 

It  may  be  said  that  none  of  these  poets  strike  a  deep 
native  strain  or  sound  a  distinctively  original  note,  either 
in  matter  or  form.  That  is  true ;  but  the  same  thing  may 
be  said  of  all  the  American  poets  down  to  the  writers 
of  the  present  generation,  with  the  exception  of  Poe  and 
Walt  Whitman.  The  thing  in  which  these  black  poets 
are  mostly  excelled  by  their  contemporaries  is  mere  tech- 
nique. 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  stands  out  as  the  first  poet  from 
the  Negro  race  in  the  United  States  to  show  a  combined 
mastery  over  poetic  material  and  poetic  technique,  to 
reveal  innate  literary  distinction  in  what  he  wrote,  and 
to  maintain  a  high  level  of  performance.  He  was  the 
first  to  rise  to  a  height  from  which  he  could  take  a  per- 
spective view  of  his  own  race.  He  was  the  first  to  see 
objectively  its  humor,  its  superstitions,  its  shortcomings; 
the  first  to  feel  sympathetically  its  heart-wounds,  its 
yearnings,  its  aspirations,  and  to  voice  them  all  in  a  purely 
literary  form. 

Dunbar's  fame  rests  chiefly  on  his  poems  in  Negro 
dialect.  This  appraisal  of  him  is,  no  doubt,  fair;  for 
in  these  dialect  poems  he  not  only  carried  his  art  to  the 
highest  point  of  perfection,  but  he  made  a  contribution 
to  American  literature  unlike  what  any  one  else  had 
made,  a  contribution  which,  perhaps,  no  one  else  could 
have  made.  Of  course,  Negro  dialect  poetry  was  writ- 
ten before  Dunbar  wrote,  most  of  it  by  white  writers ;  but 
the  fact  stands  out  that  Dunbar  was  the  first  to  use  it 
as  a  medium  for  the  true  interpretation  of  Negro  char- 
acter and  psychology.    And,  yet,  dialect  poetry  does  not 


xxxiv  Preface 

constitute  the  whole  or  even  the  bulk  of  Dunbar's  work. 
In  addition  to  a  large  number  of  poems  of  a  very  high 
order  done  in  literary  English,  he  was  the  author  of 
four  novels  and  several  volumes  of  short  stories. 

Indeed,  Dunbar  did  not  begin  his  career  as  a  writer  of 
dialect.  I  may  be  pardoned  for  introducing  here  a  bit 
of  reminiscence.  My  personal  friendship  with  Paul  Dun^ 
bar  began  before  he  had  achieved  recognition,  and  con- 
tinued to  be  close  until  his  death.  When  I  first  met  him 
he  had  published  a  thin  volume,  "Oak  and  Ivy,"  which 
was  being  sold  chiefly  through  his  own  efforts.  "Oak 
and  Ivy"  showed  no  distinctive  Negro  influence,  but 
rather  the  influence  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley.  At  this 
time  Paul  and  I  were  together  every  day  for  several 
months.  He  talked  to  me  a  great  deal  about  his  hopes 
and  ambitions.  In  these  talks  he  revealed  that  he  had 
reached  a  realization  of  the  possibilities  of  poetry  in  the 
dialect,  together  with  a  recognition  of  the  fact  that  it 
offered  the  surest  way  by  which  he  could  get  a  hearing. 
Often  he  said  to  me:  "I've  got  to  write  dialect  poetry;  it's 
the  only  way  I  can  get  them  to  listen  to  me."  I  was  with 
Dunbar  at  the  beginning  of  what  proved  to  be  his  last 
illness.  He  said  to  me  then:  "I  have  not  grown.  I  am 
writing  the  same  things  I  wrote  ten  years  ago,  and  am 
writing  them  no  better."  His  self-accusation  was  not 
fully  true;  he  had  grown,  and  he  had  gained  a  surer 
control  of  his  art,  but  he  had  not  accomplished  the  greater 
things  of  which  he  was  constantly  dreaming;  the  public 
had  held  him  to  the  things  for  which  It  had  accorded 
him  recognition.  If  Dunbar  had  lived  he  would  have 
achieved  some  of  those  dreams,  but  even  while  he  talked 


Preface  xxxv 

so  dejectedly  to  me  he  seemed  to  feel  that  he  was  not  to 
live.    He  died  when  he  was  only  thirty-three. 

It  has  a  bearing  on  this  entire  subject  to  note  that 
Dunbar  was  of  unmixed  Negro  blood ;  so,  as  the  greatest 
figure  in  literature  which  the  colored  race  in  the  United 
States  has  produced,  he  stands  as  an  example  at  once 
refuting  and  confounding  those  who  wish  to  believe  that 
whatever  extraordinary  ability  an  Aframerican  shows  is 
due  to  an  admixture  of  white  blood. 

As  a  man,  Dunbar  was  kind  and  tender.  In  conver- 
sation he  was  brilliant  and  polished.  His  voice  was  his 
chief  charm,  and  was  a  great  element  in  his  success  as 
a  reader  of  his  own  works.  In  his  actions  he  was  im- 
pulsive as  a  child,  sometimes  even  erratic;  indeed,  his  inti- 
mate friends  almost  looked  upon  him  as  a  spoiled  boy. 
He  was  always  delicate  in  health.  Temperamentally,  he 
belonged  to  that  class  of  poets  who  Taine  says  are  ves- 
sels too  weak  to  contain  the  spirit  of  poetry,  the  poets 
whom  poetry  kills,  the  Byrons,  the  Burns*s,  the  De 
Mussets,  the  Poes. 

To  whom  may  he  be  compared,  this  boy  who  scribbled 
his  early  verses  while  he  ran  an  elevator,  whose  youth 
was  a  battle  against  poverty,  and  wh6,  in  spite  of  almost 
insurmountable  obstacles,  rose  to  success?  A  comparison 
between  him  and  Burns  is  not  unfitting.  The  similarity 
between  many  phases  of  their  lives  is  remarkable,  and 
their  works  are  not  incommensurable.  Burns  took  the 
strong  dialect  of  his  people  and  made  it  classic;  Dunbar 
took  the  humble  speech  of  his  people  and  in  it  wrought 
music. 


xxxvi  Preface 

Mention  of  Dunbar  brings  up  for  consideration  the 
fact  that,  although  he  is  the  most  outstanding  figure  in 
literature  among  the  Aframericans  of  the  United  States, 
he  does  not  stand  alone  among  the  Aframericans  of  the 
whole  Western  world.  There  are  Placido  and  Manzano 
in  Cuba;  Vieux  and  Durand  in  Haiti,  Machado  de  Assis 
in  Brazil;  Leon  Laviaux  in  Martinique,  and  others  still 
that  might  be  mentioned,  who  stand  on  a  plane  with  or 
even  above  Dunbar.  Placido  and  Machado  de  Assis  rank 
as  great  in  the  literatures  of  their  respective  countries 
without  any  qualifications  whatever.  They  are  world 
figures  in  the  literature  of  the  Latin  languages.  Machado 
de  Assis  is  somewhat  handicapped  in  this  respect  by  hav- 
ing as  his  tongue  and  medium  the  lesser  known  Portu- 
guese, but  Placido,  writing  in  the  language  of  Spain, 
Mexico,  Cuba  and  of  almost  the  whole  of  South  America, 
is  universally  known.  His  works  have  been  republished 
in  the  original  in  Spain,  Mexico  and  in  most  of  the 
Latin- American  countries ;  several  editions  have  been  pub- 
lished in  the  United  States;  translations  of  his  works 
have  been  made  into  French  and  German. 

Placido  is  in  some  respects  the  greatest  of  all  the  Cuban 
poets.  In  sheer  genius  and  the  fire  of  inspiration  he  sur- 
passes even  the  more  finished  Heredia.  Then,  too,  his 
birth,  his  life  and  his  death  ideally  contained  the  tragic 
elements  that  go  into  the  making  of  a  halo  about  a  poet's 
head.  Placido  was  born  in  Habana  in  1809.  The  first 
months  of  his  life  were  passed  in  a  foundling  asylum ;  in- 
deed, his  real  name,  Gabriel  de  la  Concepcion  Valdes, 
was  in  honor  of  its  founder.  His  father  took  him  out 
of  the  asylum,  but  shortly  afterwards  went  to  Mexico  and 


Preface  xxxvii 

died  there.  His  early  life  was  a  struggle  against  pov- 
erty; his  youth  and  manhood  was  a  struggle  for  Cuban 
independence.  His  death  placed  him  in  the  list  of  Cuban 
martyrs.  On  the  27th  of  June,  1844,  he  was  lined  up 
against  a  wall  with  ten  others  and  shot  by  order  of  the 
Spanish  authorities  on  a  charge  of  conspiracy.  In  his 
short  but  eventful  life  he  turned  out  work  which  bulks 
more  than  six  hundred  pages.  During  the  few  hours  pre- 
ceding his  execution  he  wrote  three  of  his  best  known 
poems,  among  them  his  famous  sonnet,  "Mother,  Fare- 
well!" 

Placi'do's  sonnet  to  his  mother  has  been  translated  into 
every  important  language;  William  Cullen  Bryant  did 
it  in  English;  but  in  spite  of  its  wide  popularity,  it  is, 
perhaps,  outside  of  Cuba  the  least  understood  of  all 
Placido's  poems.  It  is  curious  to  note  how  Bryant's  trans- 
lation totally  misses  the  intimate  sense  of  the  delicate  sub- 
tility  of  the  poem.  The  American  poet  makes  it  a  tender 
and  loving  farewell  of  a  son  who  is  about  to  die  to  a 
heart-broken  mother;  but  that  is  not  the  kind  of  a  fare- 
well that  Placido  intended  to  write  or  did  write. 

The  key  to  the  poem  is  in  the  first  word,  and  the  first 
word  is  the  Spanish  conjunction  Si  (if).  The  central 
idea,  then,  of  the  sonnet  is,  "If  the  sad  fate  which  now 
overwhelms  me  should  bring  a  pang  to  your  heart,  do 
not  weep,  for  I  die  a  glorious  death  and  sound  the  last 
note  of  my  lyre  to  you."  Bryant  either  failed  to  under- 
stand or  ignored  the  opening  word,  "If,"  because  he  was 
not  familiar  with  the  poet's  history. 

While  Placido's  father  was  a  Negro,  his  mother  was 
a  Spanish  white  woman,  a  dancer  in  one  of  the  Habana 


XXX  VI 11  Preface 

theatres.  At  his  birth  she  abandoned  him  to  a  foundh'ng 
asylum,  and  perhaps  never  saw  him  again,  although  it  is 
known  that  she  outlived  her  son.  When  the  poet  came 
down  to  his  last  hours  he  remembered  that  somewhere 
there  lived  a  woman  who  was  his  mother;  that  although 
she  had  heartlessly  abandoned  him;  that  although  he 
owed  her  no  filial  duty,  still  she  might,  perhaps,  on  hear- 
ing of  his  sad  end  feel  some  pang  of  grief  or  sadness;  so 
he  tells  her  in  his  last  words  that  he  dies  happy  and 
bids  her  not  to  weep.  This  he  does  with  nobility  and 
dignity,  but  absolutely  without  affection.  Taking  into 
account  these  facts,  and  especially  their  humiliating  and 
embittering  effect  upon  a  soul  so  sensitive  as  Placido's, 
this  sonnet,  in  spite  of  the  obvious  weakness  of  the  sestet 
as  compared  with  the  octave,  is  a  remarkable  piece  of 
work.^ 

In  considering  the  Aframerlcan  poets  of  the  Latin  lan- 
guages I  am  impelled  to  think  that,  as  up  to  this  time 
the  colored  poets  of  greater  universality  have  come  out 
of  the  Latin-American  countries  rather  than  out  of  the 
United  States,  they  will  continue  to  do  so  for  a  good 
many  years.  The  reason  for  this  I  hinted  at  in  the  first 
part  of  this  preface.  The  colored  poet  in  the  United 
States  labors  within  limitations  which  he  cannot  easily 
pass  over.  He  is  always  on  the  defensive  or  the  offensive. 
The  pressure  upon  him  to  be  propagandic  is  well  nigh 
irresistible.  These  conditions  are  suffocating  to  breadth 
and  to  real  art  in  poetry.  In  addition  he  labors  under 
the  handicap  of  finding  culture  not  entirely  colorless  in 

iPUcido*s  sonnet  and  two  English  versions  "will  be  found  in 
die  Appendix. 


Preface  xxxix 

the  United  States.  On  the  other  hand,  the  colored  poet  of 
Latin-America  can  voice  the  national  spirit  without  any 
reservations.  And  he  will  be  rewarded  without  any  res- 
ervations, whether  it  be  to  place  him  among  the  great  or 
declare  him  the  greatest. 

So  I  think  it  probable  that  the  first  world-acknowledged 
Aframerican  poet  will  come  out  of  Latin-America.  Over 
against  this  probability,  of  course,  is  the  great  advantage 
possessed  by  the  colored  poet  in  the  United  States  of 
writing  in  the  world-conquering  English  language. 

This  preface  has  gone  far  beyond  what  I  had  in  mind 
when  I  started.  It  was  my  intention  to  gather  together 
the  best  verses  I  could  find  by  Negro  poets  and  present 
them  with  a  bare  word  of  introduction.  It  was  not  my 
plan  to  make  this  collection  inclusive  nor  to  make  the 
book  in  any  sense  a  book  of  criticism.  I  planned  to  pre- 
sent only  verses  by  contemporary  writers;  but,  perhaps, 
because  this  is  the  first  collection  of  its  kind,  I  realized 
the  absence  of  a  starting-point  and  was  led  to  provide  one 
and  to  fill  in  with  historical  data  what  I  felt  to  be  a 
gap. 

It  may  be  surprising  to  many  to  see  how  little  of  the 
poetry  being  written  by  Negro  poets  to-day  is  being  writ- 
ten in  Negro  dialect.  The  newer  Negro  poets  show  a 
tendency  to  discard  dialect;  much  of  the  subject-matter 
which  went  into  the  making  of  traditional  dialect  poetry, 
*possums,  watermelons,  etc.,  they  have  discarded  alto- 
gether, at  least,  as  poetic  material.  This  tendency  will,  no 
doubt,  be  regretted  by  the  majority  of  white  readers; 
and,  indeed,  it  would  be  a  distinct  loss  if  the  American 


xl  Preface 

Negro  poets  threw  away  this  quaint  and  musical  folk- 
speech  as  a  medium  of  expression.  And  yet,  after  all, 
these  poets  are  working  through  a  problem  not  realized 
by  the  reader,  and,  perhaps,  by  many  of  these  poets  them- 
selves not  realized  consciously.  They  are  trying  to  break 
away  from,  not  Negro  dialect  itself,  but  the  limitations 
on  Negro  dialect  imposed  by  the  fixing  effects  of  long 
convention. 

The  Negro  in  the  United  States  has  achieved  or  been 
placed  in  a  certain  artistic  niche.  When  he  is  thought 
of  artistically,  it  is  as  a  happy-go-lucky,  singing,  shuffling, 
banjo-picking  being  or  as  a  more  or  less  pathetic  figure. 
The  picture  of  him  is  in  a  log  cabin  amid  fields  of  cotton 
or  along  the  levees.  Negro  dialect  is  naturally  and  by 
long  assodation  the  exact  instrument  for  voicing  this 
phase  of  Negro  life;  and  by  that  very  exactness  it  is  an 
instrument  with  but  two  full  stops,  humor  and  pathos. 
So  even  when  he  confines  himself  to  purely  racial  themes, 
the  Aframerican  poet  realizes  that  there  are  phases  of 
Negro  life  in  the  United  States  which  cannot  be  treated 
in  the  dialect  either  adequately  or  artistically.  Take, 
for  example,  the  phases  rising  out  of  life  in  Harlem,  that 
most  wonderful  Negro  city  in  the  world.  I  do  not  deny 
that  a  Negro  in  a  log  cabin  is  more  picturesque  than  a 
Negro  in  a  Harlem  flat,  but  the  Negro  in  the  Harlem 
flat  is  here,  and  he  is  but  part  of  a  group  growing  every- 
where in  the  country,  a  group  whose  ideals  are  becom- 
ing increasingly  more  vital  than  those  of  the  traditionally 
artistic  group,  even  if  its  members  are  less  picturesque. 

What  the  colored  poet  in  the  United  States  needs  to 
do  is  something  like  what  Synge  did  for  the  Irish;  he  needs 


Preface  xli 

to  find  a  form  that  will  express  the  racial  spirit  by 
symbols  from  within  rather  than  by  symbols  from  with- 
out, such  as  the  mere  mutilation  of  English  spelling 
and  pronunciation.  He  needs  a  form  that  is  freer  and 
larger  than  dialect,  but  which  will  still  hold  the  racial 
flavor;  a  form  expressing  the  imagery,  the  idioms,  the 
peculiar  turns  of  thought,  and  the  distinctive  humor  and 
pathos,  too,  of  the  Negro,  but  which  will  also  be  capable 
of  voicing  the  deepest  and  highest  emotions  and  aspira- 
tions, and  allow  of  the  widest  range  of  subjects  and  the 
widest  scope  of  treatment. 

Negro  dialect  is  at  present  a  mediimi  that  is  not  ca- 
pable of  giving  expression  to  the  varied  conditions  of 
Negro  life  in  America,  and  much  less  is  it  capable  of 
giving  the  fullest  interpretation  of  Negro  character  and 
psycholog>\  This  is  no  indictment  against  the  dialect 
as  dialect,  but  against  the  mould  of  convention  in  which 
Negro  dialect  in  the  United  States  has  been  set.  In 
time  these  conventions  may  become  lost,  and  the  colored 
poet  in  the  United  States  may  sit  down  to  write  in  dialect 
without  feeling  that  his  first  line  will  put  the  general 
reader  in  a  frame  of  mind  which  demands  that  the  poem 
be  humorous  or  pathetic.  In  the  meantime,  there  is  no 
reason  why  these  poets  should  not  continue  to  do  the 
beautiful  things  that  can  be  done,  and  done  best,  in  the 
dialect. 

In  stating  the  need  for  Aframerican  poets  in  the  United 
States  to  work  out  a  new  and  distinctive  form  of  ex- 
pression I  do  not  wish  to  be  understood  to  hold  any 
theory  that  they  should  limit  themselves  to  Negro  poetry, 
to  racial  themes;  the  sooner  they  are  able  to  write  Ameri- 


xlii  Preface 

c€in  poetry  spontaneously,  the  better.  Nevertheless,  I 
believe  that  the  richest  contribution  the  Negro  poet  can 
make  to  the  American  literature  of  the  future  will  be  the 
fusion  into  it  of  his  own  individual  artistic  gifts. 

Not  many  of  the  writers  here  included,  except  Dun- 
bar, are  known  at  all  to  the  general  reading  public;  and 
there  is  only  one  of  these  who  has  a  widely  recognized 
position  in  the  American  literary  world,  he  is  William 
Stanley  Braithwaite.  Mr.  Braithwaite  is  not  only  unique 
in  this  respect,  but  he  stands  unique  among  all  the 
Aframerican  writers  the  United  States  has  yet  produced. 
He  has  gained  his  place,  taking  as  the  standard  and  meas- 
ure for  his  work  the  identical  standard  and  measure 
applied  to  American  writers  and  American  literature. 
He  has  asked  for  no  allowances  or  rewards,  either  di' 
rectly  or  indirectly,  on  account  of  his  race. 

Mr.  Braithwaite  is  the  author  of  two  volumes  of 
verses,  lyrics  of  delicate  and  tenuous  beauty.  In  his  more 
recent  and  uncollected  poems  he  shows  himself  more  and 
more  decidedly  the  mystic.  But  his  place  in  American 
literature  is  due  more  to  his  work  as  a  critic  and 
anthologist  than  to  his  work  as  a  poet.  There  is 
still  another  role  he  has  played,  that  of  friend  of  poetry 
and  poets.  It  is  a  recognized  fact  that  in  the  work 
which  preceded  the  present  revival  of  poetry  in  the  United 
States,  no  one  rendered  more  unremitting  and  valuable 
service  than  Mr.  Braithwaite.  And  it  can  be  said  that 
no  future  study  of  American  poetry  of  this  age  can  be 
made  without  reference  to  Braithwaite. 

Two  authors  included  in  the  book  are  better  known 


Preface  xliii 

for  their  work  in  prose  than  in  poetry :  W.  E.  B.  Du  Bois 
whose  well-known  prose  at  its  best  is,  however,  impas- 
sioned and  rhythmical;  and  Benjamin  Brawley  who  is 
the  author,  among  other  works,  of  one  of  the  best  hand- 
books on  the  English  drama  that  has  yet  appeared  in 
America. 

But  the  group  of  the  new  Negro  poets,  whose  work 
makes  up  the  bulk  of  this  anthology,  contains  names 
destined  to  be  known.  Claude  McKay,  although  still 
quite  a  young  man,  has  already  demonstrated  his  power, 
breadth  and  skill  as  a  poet.  Mr.  McKay's  breadth 
is  as  essential  a  part  of  his  equipment  as  his  power  and 
skill.  He  demonstrates  mastery  of  the  three  when  as  a 
Negro  poet  he  pours  out  the  bitterness  and  rebellion  in 
his  heart  m  those  two  sonnet-tragedies,  "If  We  Must 
Die"  and  "To  the  White  Fiends,"  in  a  manner  that 
strikes  terror;  and  when  as  a  cosmic  poet  he  creates  the 
atmosphere  and  mood  of  poetic  beauty  in  the  absolute, 
as  he  does  in  "Spring  in  New  Hampshire"  and  "The 
Harlem  Dancer."  Mr.  McKay  gives  evidence  that  he 
has  passed  beyond  the  danger  which  threatens  many  of 
the  new  Negro  poets — the  danger  of  allowing  the  purely 
polemical  phases  of  the  race  problem  to  choke  their  sense 
of  artistry. 

Mr.  McKay's  earliest  work  is  unknown  in  this  coun- 
try. It  consists  of  poems  written  and  published  in  his 
native  Jamaica.  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  run  across 
this  first  volume,  and  I  could  not  refrain  from  repro- 
ducing here  one  of  the  poems  written  in.  the  West 
Indian  Negro  dialect.  I  have  done  this  not  only  to 
illustrate  the  widest  range  of  the  poet's  talent  and  to 


xliv  Preface 

offer  a  comparison  between  the  American  and  the  West 
Indian  dialects,  but  on  account  of  the  intrinsic  worth 
of  the  poem  itself.  I  was  much  tempted  to  Introduce 
several  more,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  might  require 
a  glossary,  because  however  greater  work  Mr.  McKay 
may  do  he  can  never  do  anything  more  touching  and 
charming  than  these  poems  In  the  Jamaica  dialect. 

Fenton  Johnson  is  a  young  poet  of  the  ultra-modern 
school  who  gives  promise  of  greater  work  than  he  has 
yet  done.  Jessie  Fauset  shows  that  she  possesses  the 
lyric  gift,  and  she  works  with  care  and  finish.  Miss 
Fauset  is  especially  adept  in  her  translations  from  the 
French.  Georgia  Douglas  Johnson  is  a  poet  neither 
afraid  nor  ashamed  of  her  emotions.  She  limits  herself 
to  the  purely  conventional  forms,  rhythms  and  rhymes,  but 
through  them  she  achieves  striking  effects.  The  principal 
theme  of  Mrs.  Johnson's  poems  is  the  secret  dread  down 
in  every  woman's  heart,  the  dread  of  the  passing  of  youth 
and  beauty,  and  with  them  love.  An  old  theme,  one 
which  poets  themselves  have  often  wearied  of,  but  which, 
like  death,  remains  one  of  the  imperishable  themes  on 
which  is  made  the  poetry  that  has  moved  men's  hearts 
through  all  ages.  In  her  ingenuously  wrought  verses, 
through  sheer  simplicity  and  spontaneousness,  Mrs.  John- 
son often  sounds  a  note  of  pathos  or  passion  that  will  not 
fail  to  waken  a  response,  except  in  those  too  sophisticated 
or  cynical  to  respond  to  natural  impulses.  Of  the  half 
dozen  or  so  of  colored  women  writing  creditable  verse, 
Anne  Spencer  is  the  most  modern  and  least  obvious  in 
her  methods.  Her  lines  are  at  times  involved  and  turgid 
and  almost  cryptic,  but  she  shows  an  originality  which 


Preface  xlv 

does  not  depend  upon  eccentricities.  In  her  "Before  the 
Feast  of  Shushan"  she  displays  an  opulence,  the  love  of 
which  has  long  been  charged  against  the  Negro  as  one 
of  his  naive  and  childish  traits,  but  w^hich  in  art  may- 
infuse  a  much  needed  color,  warmth  and  spirit  of  abandon 
into  American  poetry. 

John  W.  Holloway,  more  than  any  Negro  poet  writ- 
ing in  the  dialect  to-day,  summons  to  his  work  the  lilt, 
the  spontaneity  and  charm  of  which  Dunbar  was  the 
supreme  master  whenever  he  employed  that  medium.  It 
is  well  to  say  a  word  here  about  the  dialect  poems  of 
James  Edwin  Campbell.  In  dialect,  Campbell  was  a 
precursor  of  Dunbar.  A  comparison  of  his  idioms  and 
phonetics  with  those  of  Dunbar  reveals  great  differences. 
Dunbar  is  a  shade  or  two  more  sophisticated  and  his 
phonetics  approach  nearer  to  a  mean  standard  of  the 
dialects  spoken  in  the  different  sections.  Campbell  is 
more  primitive  and  his  phonetics  are  those  of  the  dialect 
as  spoken  by  the  Negroes  of  the  sea  islands  off  the  coasts 
of  South  Carolina  and  Georgia,  which  to  this  day  remains 
comparatively  close  to  its  African  roots,  and  is  strikingly 
similar  to  the  speech  of  the  uneducated  Negroes  of  the 
West  Indies.  An  error  that  confuses  many  persons  in 
reading  or  understanding  Negro  dialect  is  the  idea  that 
it  is  uniform.  An  ignorant  Negro  of  the  uplands  of 
Georgia  would  have  almost  as  much  difficulty  in  under- 
standing an  ignorant  sea  island  Negro  as  an  Englishman 
would  have.  Not  even  in  the  dialect  of  any  particular 
section  is  a  given  word  always  pronounced  in  precisely 
the  same  way.  Its  pronunciation  depends  upon  the  pre- 
ceding and  following  sounds.     Sometimes  the  combina- 


xlvi  Preface 

tion  permits  of  a  liaison  so  close  that  to  the  uninitiated 
the  sound  of  the  word  is  almost  completely  lost. 

The  constant  effort  in  Negro  dialect  is  to  elide  all 
troublesome  consonants  and  sounds.  This  negative  effort 
may  be  after  all  only  positive  laziness  of  the  vocal  organs, 
but  the  result  is  a  softening  and  smoothing  which  makes 
Negro  dialect  so  delightfully  easy  for  singers. 

Daniel  Webster  Davis  wrote  dialect  poetry  at  the 
time  when  Dunbar  was  writing.  He  gained  great  popu- 
larity, but  it  did  not  spread  beyond  his  own  race.  Davis 
had  unctuous  humor,  but  he  was  crude.  For  illustra- 
tion, note  the  vast  stretch  between  his  "Hog  Meat"  and 
Dunbar's  "When  de  Co'n  Pone's  Hot,"  both  of  them 
poems  on  the  traditional  ecstasy  of  the  Negro  in  con- 
templation of  "good  things"  to  eat. 

It  Is  regrettable  that  two  of  the  most  gifted  writers 
included  were  cut  off  so  early  in  life.  R.  C.  Jamison 
and  Joseph  S.  Cotter,  Jr.,  died  several  years  ago,  both  of 
them  in  their  youth.  Jamison  was  barely  thirty  at  the 
time  of  his  death,  but  among  his  poems  there  is  one,  at 
least,  which  stamps  him  as  a  poet  of  superior  talent  and 
lofty  inspiration.  "The  Negro  Soldiers"  is  a  poem  with 
the  race  problem  as  its  theme,  yet  it  transcends  the  limits 
of  race  and  rises  to  a  spiritual  height  that  makes  it  one 
of  the  noblest  poems  of  the  Great  War.  Cotter  died  a 
mere  boy  of  twenty,  and  the  latter  part  of  that  brief 
period  he  passed  in  an  invalid  state.  Some  months  before 
his  death  he  published  a  thin  volume  of  verses  which 
were  for  the  most  part  written  on  a  sick  bed.  In  this 
little  volume  Cotter  showed  fine  poetic  sense  and  a  free 
and  bold  mastery  over  his  material.     A  reading  of  Cot- 


Preface  xlvii 

ter's  poems  Is  certain  to  induce  that  mood  in  which  one 
will  regretfully  speculate  on  what  the  young  poet  might 
have  accomplished  had  he  not  been  cut  off  so  soon. 

As  intimated  above,  my  original  idea  for  this  book 
underwent  a  change  in  the  writing  of  the  introduction. 
I  first  planned  to  select  twenty-five  to  thirty  poems  which 
I  judged  to  be  up  to  a  certain  standard,  and  offer  them 
with  a  few  words  of  introduction  and  without  comment. 
In  the  collection,  as  it  grew  to  be,  that  "certain  standard" 
has  been  broadened  if  not  lowered;  but  I  believe  that 
this  is  offset  by  the  advantage  of  the  wider  range  given 
the  reader  and  the  student  of  the  subject. 

I  offer  this  collection  without  making  apology  or  asking 
allowance.  I  feel  confident  that  the  reader  will  find  not 
only  an  earnest  for  the  future,  but  actual  achievement. 
The  reader  cannot  but  be  impressed  by  the  distance  al- 
ready covered.  It  is  a  long  way  from  the  plaints  of 
George  Horton  to  the  invectives  of  Claude  McKay,  from 
the  obviousness  of  Frances  Harper  to  the  complexness  of 
Anne  Spencer.  Much  ground  has  been  covered,  but  more 
will  yet  be  covered.  It  is  this  side  of  prophecy  to  declare 
that  the  undeniable  creative  genius  of  the  Negro  is  des- 
tined to  make  a  distinctive  and  valuable  contribution  to 
American  poetry. 

I  wish  to  extend  my  thanks  to  Mr.  Arthur  A.  Schom- 
burg,  who  placed  his  valuable  collection  of  books  by 
Negro  authors  at  my  disposal.  I  wish  also  to  acknowledge 
with  thanks  the  kindness  of  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.  for  per- 
mitting the  reprint  of  poems  by  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar; 


xlviii  Preface 

of  the  Cornhill  Publishing  Company  for  permission  to 
reprint  poems  of  Georgia  Douglas  Johnson,  Joseph  S. 
Cotter,  Jr.,  Bertram  Johnson  and  Waverley  Carmichael; 
and  of  Neale  &  Co.  for  permission  to  reprint  poems  of 
John  W.  Hollo  way.  I  wish  to  thank  Mr.  Braithwaite 
for  permission  to  use  the  included  poems  from  his  forth- 
coming volume,  "Sandy  Star  and  Willie  Gee."  And  to 
acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  the  following  magazines: 
The  CrisiSj  The  Century  Magazine,  The  Liberator,  The 
Freeman,  The  Independent,  Others,  and  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse. 

James  Weldon  Johnson. 
New  York  City,  1921. 


The  Book  of 
American  Negro  Poetry 


Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 

A  NEGRO  LOVE  SONG^ 

Seen  my  lady  home  las'  night, 

Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 
Hel'  huh  han'  an'  sque'z  it  tight, 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 
Hyeahd  huh  sigh  a  little  sigh, 
Seen  a  light  gleam  f'om  huh  eye, 
An'  a  smile  go  flittin'  by — 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

Hyeahd  de  win'  blow  thoo  de  pine, 

Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 
Mockin'-bird  was  singin'  fine. 

Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 
An'  my  hea't  was  beatin'  so. 
When  I  reached  my  lady's  do', 
Dat  I  could  n't  ba'  to  go — 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

Put  my  ahm  aroun'  huh  wais', 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

Raised  huh  lips  an'  took  a  tase. 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

^  Copyright  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company. 

3 


Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 

Love  me,  honey,  love  me  true? 
Love  me  well  ez  I  love  you  ? 
An*  she  answe'd,  "Cose  I  do" — 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 


Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 


LITTLE  BROWN  BABY 

Little  brown  baby  wif  spa'klln*  eyes, 

Come  to  yo'  pappy  an'  set  on  his  knee. 
What  you  been  doin*,  suh — makin'  san'  pies? 

Look  at  dat  bib — You's  ez  du'ty  ez  me. 
Look  at  dat  mouf — dat's  merlasses,  I  bet; 

Come  hyeah,  Maria,  an'  wipe  off  his  ban's. 
Bees  gwine  to  ketch  you  an'  eat  you  up  yit, 

Bein'  so  sticky  an'  sweet — goodness  lan's! 

Little  brown  baby  wif  spa'klin'  eyes 

Who's  pappy 's  darlin'  an'  who's  pappy's  chile? 
Who  is  it  all  de  day  nevah  once  tries 

Fu'  to  be  cross,  er  once  loses  dat  smile  ? 
Whah  did  you  git  dem  teef  ?    My,  you's  a  scamp ! 

Whah  did  dat  dimple  come  f  om  in  yo'  chin  ? 
Pappy  do*  know  you — I  b'lieves  you's  a  tramp ; 

Mammy,  dis  hyeah's  some  ol'  straggler  got  in! 

Let's  th'ow  him  outen  de  do'  in  de  san'. 

We  do'  want  stragglers  a-layin'  'roun'  hyeah; 
Let's  gin  him  'way  to  de  big  buggah-man ; 

I  know  he's  hidin'  erroun'  hyeah  right  neah. 
Buggah-man,  buggah-man,  come  in  de  do', 

Hyeah's  a  bad  boy  you  kin  have  fu'  to  eat. 
Mammy  an'  pappy  do'  want  him  no  mo', 

Swaller  him  down  f'om  his  haid  to  his  feet! 


Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 

Dah,  now,  I  t'ought  dat  you'd  hug  me  up  close. 

Go  back,  oF  buggah,  you  sha'n't  have  dis  boy. 
He  ain't  no  tramp,  ner  no  straggler,  of  co'se ; 

He's  pappy's  pa'dner  an'  playmate  an'  joy. 
Come  to  you'  pallet  now — go  to  you'  res'  ; 

Wisht  you  could  alius  know  ease  an'  cleah  skies; 
Wisht  you  could  stay  jes'  a  chile  on  my  breas' — 

Little  brown  baby  wif  spa'klin'  eyes! 


Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 


SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT 

Out  in  the  sky  the  great  dark  clouds  are  massing; 

I  look  far  out  into  the  pregnant  night, 
Where  I  can  hear  a  solemn  booming  gun 

And  catch  the  gleaming  of  a  random  light, 
That  tells  me  that  the  ship  I  seek  is  passing,  passing. 

My  tearful  eyes  my  soul's  deep  hurt  are  glassing; 

For  I  would  hail  and  check  that  ship  of  ships. 
I  stretch  my  hands  imploring,  cry  aloud, 

My  voice  falls  dead  a  foot  from  mine  own  lips, 
And  but  its  ghost  doth  reach  that  vessel,  passing,  passing. 

O  Earth,  O  Sky,  O  Ocean,  both  surpassing, 

O  heart  of  mine,  O  soul  that  dreads  the  dark! 

Is  there  no  hope  for  me?    Is  there  no  way 

That  I  may  sight  and  check  that  speeding  bark 

Which  out  of  sight  and  sound  is  passing,  passing? 


8  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 


LOVER'S  LANE 

Summah  night  an'  sighin'  breeze, 

'Long  de  lovah's  lane; 
Frien'ly,  shadder-mekin'  trees, 

'Long  de  lovah's  lane. 
White  folks'  wo'k  all  done  up  gran'- 
Me  an'  'Mandy  han'-in-han' 
Struttin'  lak  we  owned  de  Ian', 

'Long  de  lovah's  lane. 

Owl  a-settin'  'side  de  road, 

'Long  de  lovah's  lane, 
Lookin'  at  us  lak  he  knowed 

Dis  uz  lovah's  lane. 
Go  on,  hoot  yo'  Mou'nful  tune, 
You  ain'  nevah  loved  in  June, 
An'  come  hidin'  f  om  de  moon 

Down  in  lovah's  lane. 

Bush  it  ben'  an'  nod  an'  sway, 

Down  in  lovah's  lane, 
Try'n'  to  hyeah  me  whut  I  say 

'Long  de  lovah's  lane. 
But  I  whispahs  low  lak  dis. 
An'  my  'Mandy  smile  huh  bliss — 
Mistah  Bush  he  shek  his  fis', 

Down  in  lovah's  lane. 


Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 

Whut  I  keer  ef  day  is  long, 

Down  in  lovah's  lane. 
I  kin  alius  sing  a  song 

*Long  de  lovah's  lane. 
An'  de  wo'ds  I  hyeah  an*  say 
Meks  up  fu'  de  weary  day 
Wen  I's  strollin'  by  de  way, 
Down  in  lovah's  lane. 

An'  dis  t'ought  will  alius  rise 

Down  in  lovah's  lane ; 
Wondah  whethah  in  de  skies 

Dey's  a  lovah's  lane. 
Ef  dey  ain't,  I  tell  you  true, 
'Ligion  do  look  mighty  blue, 
'Cause  I  do'  know  whut  I'd  do 
'Dout  a  lovah's  lane. 


lO  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 


THE  DEBT 

This  is  the  debt  I  pay- 
Just  for  one  riotous  day, 
Years  of  regret  and  grief, 
Sorrow  without  relief. 

Pay  it  I  will  to  the  end 

Until  the  grave,  my  friend. 
Gives  me  a  true  release — 
Gives  me  the  clasp  of  peace. 

Slight  was  the  thing  I  bought, 
Small  was  the  debt  I  thought, 
Poor  was  the  loan  at  best — 
God!  but  the  interest! 


Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  ii 


THE  HAUNTED  OAK 

Pray  why  are  you  so  bare,  so  bare, 

Oh,  bough  of  the  old  oak-tree; 
And  why,  when  I  go  through  the  shade  you  throw, 

Runs  a  shudder  over  me? 

My  leaves  were  green  as  the  best,  I  trow, 

And  sap  ran  free  in  my  veins. 
But  I  saw  in  the  moonlight  dim  and  weird 

A  guiltless  victim's  pains. 

I  bent  me  down  to  hear  his  sigh ; 

I  shook  with  his  gurgling  moan, 
And  I  trembled  sore  when  they  rode  away, 

And  left  him  here  alone. 

They'd  charged  him  with  the  old,  old  crime, 

And  set  him  fast  in  jail : 
Oh,  why  does  the  dog  howl  all  night  long, 

And  why  does  the  night  wind  wail? 

He  prayed  his  prayer  and  he  swore  his  oath, 

And  he  raised  his  hand  to  the  sky; 
But  the  beat  of  hoofs  smote  on  his  ear. 

And  the  steady  tread  drew  nigh. 

Who  is  it  rides  by  night,  by  night, 

Over  the  moonlit  road? 
And  what  is  the  spur  that  keeps  the  pace, 

What  is  the  galling  goad? 


(12  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 

And  now  they  beat  at  the  prison  door, 

"Ho,  keeper,  do  not  stay! 
We  are  friends  of  him  whom  you  hold  within, 

And  we  fain  would  take  him  away 

"From  those  who  ride  fast  on  our  heels 

With  mind  to  do  him  wrong; 
They  have  no  care  for  his  innocence, 

And  the  rope  they  bear  is  long." 

They  have  fooled  the  jailer  with  lying  words, 
They  have  fooled  the  man  with  lies ; 

The  bolts  unbar,  the  locks  are  drawn. 
And  the  great  door  open  flies. 

Now  they  have  taken  him  from  the  jail. 

And  hard  and  fast  they  ride, 
And  the  leader  laughs  low  down  in  his  throat, 

As  they  halt  my  trunk  beside. 

Oh,  the  judge,  he  wore  a  mask  of  black, 

And  the  doctor  one  of  white, 
And  the  minister,  with  his  oldest  son. 

Was  curiously  bedight. 

Oh,  foolish  man,  why  weep  you  now? 

*Tis  but  a  little  space. 
And  the  time  will  come  when  these  shall  dread 

The  mem'ry  of  your  face.  k 

I  feel  the  rope  against  my  bark. 

And  the  weight  of  him  in  my  grain, 

I  feel  in  the  throe  of  his  final  woe 
The  touch  of  my  own  last  pain. 


Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  13 

And  never  more  shall  leaves  come  forth 

On  a  bough  that  bears  the  ban ; 
I  am  burned  with  dread,  I  am  dried  and  dead, 

From  the  curse  of  a  guiltless  man. 

And  ever  the  judge  rides  by,  rides  by, 

And  goes  to  hunt  the  deer, 
And  ever  another  rides  his  soul 

In  the  guise  of  a  mortal  fear. 

And  ever  the  man  he  rides  me  hard, 

And  never  a  night  stays  he; 
For  I  feel  his  curse  as  a  haunted  bough 

On  the  trunk  of  a  haunted  tree. 


;I4  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 


WHEN  DE  CO'N  PONE'S  HOT 

Dey  is  times  in  life  when  Nature 

Seems  to  slip  a  cog  an'  go, 
Jes'  a-rattlin'  down  creation, 

Lak  an  ocean's  overflow; 
When  de  worl'  jes'  stahts  a-spinnin* 

Lak  a  picaninny's  top, 
An'  yo'  cup  o'  joy  is  brimmin' 

'Twell  it  seems  about  to  slop, 
An'  you  feel  jes'  lak  a  racah, 

Dat  is  trainin'  fu'  to  trot — 
When  yo'  mammy  says  de  blessin' 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 

When  you  set  down  at  de  table. 

Kin'  o'  weary  lak  an'  sad. 
An*  you'se  jes'  a  little  tiahed 

An'  purhaps  a  little  mad; 
How  yo'  gloom  tu'ns  into  gladness. 

How  yo'  joy  drives  out  de  doubt 
When  de  oven  do'  Is  opened, 

An'  de  smell  comes  po'in'  out; 
Why,  de  'lectric  light  o*  Heaven 

Seems  to  settle  on  de  spot. 
When  yo'  mammy  says  de  blessin*    . 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 

When  de  cabbage  pot  is  steamin* 
An'  de  bacon  good  an'  fat. 


Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  15 

When  de  chittlins  is  a-sputter'n' 

So's  to  show  you  whah  dey's  at ; 
Tek  away  yo'  sody  biscuit, 

Tek  away  yo'  cake  an'  pie, 
Fu'  de  glory  time  is  comin*, 

An'  it's  'proachin'  mighty  nigh, 
An'  you  want  to  jump  an'  hollah, 

Dough  you  know  you'd  bettah  not; 
When  yo'  mammy  says  de  blessin' 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 

I  have  hyeahd  o'  lots  o'  sermons, 

An'  I've  hyeahd  o'  lots  o'  prayers, 
An'  I've  listened  to  some  singin' 

Dat  has  tuck  me  up  de  stairs 
Of  de  Glory-Lan'  an'  set  me 

Jes'  below  de  Mastah's  th'one, 
An'  have  lef  my  hea't  a-singin' 

In  a  happy  aftah  tone; 
But  dem  wu'ds  so  sweetly  murmured 

Seem  to  tech  de  softes'  spot, 
When  my  mammy  says  de  blessin*, 

An*  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 


i6  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 


A  DEATH  SONG 

Lay  me  down  beneaf  de  willers  in  de  grass, 
Whah  de  branch'll  go  a-singin*  as  it  pass 

An'  w'en  I's  a-layin'  low, 

I  kin  hyeah  it  as  it  go 
Singin',  ''Sleep,  my  honey,  tek  yo*  res*  at  las'." 

Lay  me  nigh  to  whah  hit  meks  a  little  pool, 
An'  de  watah  Stan's  so  quiet  lak  an'  cool, 

Whah  de  little  birds  in  spring, 

Ust  to  come  an*  drink  an'  sing, 
An'  de  chillen  waded  on  dey  way  to  school. 

Let  me  settle  w'en  my  shouldahs  draps  dey  load 
Nigh  enough  to  hyeah  de  noises  in  de  road ; 

Fu'  I  t'ink  de  las'  long  res' 

Gwine  to  soothe  my  sperrit  bes' 
If  I's  layin*  *mong  de  t'ings  I's  alius  knowed. 


James  Edwin  Campbell 

NEGRO  SERENADE 

O,  de  light-bugs  glimmer  down  de  lane, 

Merlindy !     Merlindy ! 
O,  de  whip'-will  callin'  notes  ur  pain — 

Merlindy,  O,  Merlindy! 
O,  honey  lub,  my  turkle  dub, 

Doan'  you  hyuh  my  bawnjer  ringin*, 
While  de  night-dew  falls  an*  de  ho'n  owl  calls 

By  de  oF  ba'n  gate  Ise  singin'. 

O,  Miss  'Lindy,  doan'  you  hyuh  me,  chil*, 

Merlindy !     Merlindy ! 
My  lub  fur  you  des  dribe  me  wil' — 

Merlindy,  O,  Merlindy! 
I'll  sing  dis  night  twel  broad  day-light, 

Ur  bu's'  my  froat  wid  tryin*, 
'Less  you  come  down,  Miss  'Lindy  Brown, 

An'  stops  dis  ha't  f 'um  sighin' ! 


17 


1 8  James  Edwin  Campbell 


DE  CUNJAH  MAN 

O  chillen,  run,  de  Cunjah  man, 
Him  mouf  ez  beeg  ez  fryin'  pan, 
Him  yurs  am  small,  him  eyes  am  raid, 
Him  hab  no  toof  een  him  ol'  haid, 
Him  hab  him  roots,  him  wu'k  him  trick, 
Him  roll  him  eye,  him  mek  you  sick — 
De  Cunjah  man,  de  Cunjah  man, 
O  chillen,  run,  de  Cunjah  man! 

Him  hab  ur  ball  ob  raid,  raid  ha'r, 
Him  hide  it  un*  de  kitchen  sta'r. 
Mam  Jude  huh  pars  urlong  dat  way, 
An'  now  huh  hab  ur  snaik,  de  say. 
Him  wrop  ur  roun'  huh  buddy  tight, 
Huh  eyes  pop  out,  ur  orful  sight — 
De  Cunjah  man,  de  Cunjah  man, 
O  chillen,  run,  de  Cunjah  man! 

Miss  Jane,  huh  dribe  him  f*um  huh  do*, 
An*  now  huh  hens  woan*  lay  no  mo* ; 
De  Jussey  cow  huh  done  fall  sick. 
Hit  all  done  by  de  Cunjah  trick. 
Him  put  ur  root  un*  *Lijah*s  baid, 
An*  now  de  man  he  sho*  am  daid — 
De  Cunjah  man,  de  Cunjah  man, 
O  chillen,  run,  de  Cunjah  man! 


James  Edwin  Campbell  19 

Me  see  him  stan'  de  yudder  night 
Right  een  de  road  een  white  moon-Hght; 
Him  toss  him  arms,  him  whirl  him  'roun^ 
Him  stomp  him  foot  urpon  de  groun'; 
De  snaiks  come  crawlin',  one  by  one, 
Me  hyuh  um  hiss,  me  break  an'  run — 

De  Cunjah  man,  de  Cunjah  man, 

O  chillen,  run,  de  Cunjah  man! 


20  James  Edwin  Campbell 


UNCLE  EPH'S  BANJO  SONG 

Clean  de  ba'n  an'  sweep  de  flo', 

Sing,  my  bawnjer,  sing! 
We's  gwine  ter  dawnce  dis  eb'nin'  sho*, 

Ring,  my  bawnjer,  ring! 
Den  hits  up  de  road  an'  down  de  lane, 
Hurry,  niggah,  you  miss  de  train ; 
De  yaller  gal  she  dawnce  so  neat, 
De  yaller  gal  she  look  so  sweet, 

Ring,  my  bawnjer,  ring! 

De  moon  come  up,  de  sun  go  down, 

Sing,  my  bawnjer,  sing! 
De  niggahs  am  all  come  f  um  town, 

Ring,  my  bawnjer,  ring! 
Den  hits  roun'  de  hill  an'  f  roo  de  fiel*— • 
Lookout  dar,  niggah,  doan'  you  steal! 
De  milyuns  on  dem  vines  am  green, 
De  moon  am  bright,  O  you'll  be  seen, 

Ring,  my  bawnjer,  ring! 


James  Edwin  Campbell  21 


OL'  DOC  HYAR 

Ur  ol'  Hyar  lib  in  ur  house  on  de  hill, 

He  hunner  yurs  oV  an'  nebber  wuz  ill ; 

He  yurs  dee  so  long  an*  he  eyes  so  beeg, 

An'  he  laigs  so  spry  dat  he  dawnce  ur  jeeg; 

He  lib  so  long  dat  he  know  ebbry  tings 

'Bout  de  beas'ses  dat  walks  an*  de  bu'ds  dat  sings — 

Dis  or  Doc*  Hyar, 
Whar  lib  up  dar 

Een  ur  mighty  fine  house  on  ur  mighty  high  hill. 

He  doctah  fur  all  de  beas*ses  an*  bu*ds — 

He  put  on  he  specs,  an*  he  use  beeg  wu*ds, 

He  feel  dee  pu*s*  den  he  look  mighty  wise, 

He  pull  out  he  watch  an*  he  shet  bof e  eyes ; 

He  grab  up  he  hat  an*  grab  up  he  cane, 

Den — "blam!"  go  de  do* — he  gone  lak  de  train, 

Dis  or  Doc'  Hyar, 
Whar  lib  up  dar 

Een  ur  mighty  fine  house  on  ur  mighty  high  hill. 

Mistah  Ba'r  fall  sick — dee  sont  fur  Doc'  Hyar, 

"O,  Doctah,  come  queeck,  an*  eee  Mr.  B'ar ; 

He  mighty  nigh  daid  des  sho'  ez  you  b*on  !'* 

"Too  much  ur  young  peeg,  too  much  ur  green  co'n," 

Ez  he  put  on  he  hat,  said  Ol*  Doc*  Hyar ; 

"I'll  tek  'long  meh  lawnce,  an'  lawnce  Mistah  B'ar," 

Said  or  Doc*  Hyar, 
Whar  lib  up  dar 

Een  ur  mighty  fine  house  on  ur  miehtv  hieh  hill. 


22  James  Edwin  Campbell 

Mfstah  B'ar  he  groaned,  Mistah  B'ar  he  growled, 
Wile  de  ol'  Miss  B'ar  an'  de  chillen  howled ; 
Doctah  Hyar  tuk  out  he  sha'p  li'l  lawnce, 
An'  pyu'ced  Mistah  B'ar  twel  he  med  him  prawnce 
Den  grab  up  he  hat  an'  grab  up  he  cane 
**Blam!'*  go  de  do'  an'  he  gone  lak  de  train, 

Dis  or  Doc'  Hyar, 
Whar  lib  up  dar 
Een  ur  mighty  fine  house  on  ur  mighty  high  hill. 

But  de  vay  naix  day  Mistah  B'ar  he  daid; 

Wen  dee  tell  Doc'  Hyar,  he  des  scratch  he  haid : 

*'Ef  pahsons  git  well  ur  pahsons  git  wu's, 

Money  got  ter  come  een  de  Ol'  Hyar's  pu's ; 

Not  wut  folkses  does,  but  fur  wut  dee'  know 

Does  de  folkses  git  paid" — an'  Hyar  larfed  low, 

Dis  sma't  Ol'  Hyar, 
Whar  lib  up  dar 

Een  de  mighty  fine  house  on  de  mighty  high  hill ! 


James  Edwin  Campbell  23 


WHEN  OL*  SIS'  JUDY  PRAY 

When  ol'  Sis'  Judy  pray, 

De  teahs  come  stealin'  down  my  cheek, 

De  voice  ur  God  widin  me  speak' ; 

I  see  myse'f  so  po'  an*  weak, 

Down  on  my  knees  de  cross  I  seek, 

When  ol'  Sis'  Judy  pray. 

When  ol'  Sis'  Judy  pray, 

De  thun'ers  ur  Mount  Sin-a-i 

Comes  rushin'  down  f'um  up  on  high — 

De  Debbil  tu'n  his  back  an'  fly 

While  sinnahs  loud  fur  pa'don  cry, 

When  ol'  Sis'  Judy  pray. 

When  ol'  Sis'  Judy  pray, 
Ha'd  sinnahs  trimble  in  dey  seat 
Ter  hyuh  huh  voice  in  sorro  'peat : 
(While  all  de  chu'ch  des  sob  an'  weep) 
*'0  Shepa'd,  dese,  dy  po'  los'  sheep!" 
When  ol'  Sis*  Judy  pray. 

When  ol'  Sis*  Judy  pray, 
De  whole  house  hit  des  rock  an'  moan 
Ter  see  huh  teahs  an'  hyuh  huh  groan ; 
Dar's  somepin*  in  Sis'  Judy's  tone 
Dat  melt  all  ha'ts  dough  med  ur  stone 
When  ol'  Sis'  Judy  pray. 


24  James  Edwin  Campbell 

When  ol'  Sis'  Judy  pray, 
Salvation's  light  comes  pourin'  down — 
Hit  fill  de  chu'ch  an'  all  de  town — 
Why,  angels'  robes  go  rustlin'  'roun', 
An'  hebben  on  de  Yurf  am  foun', 
When  ol'  Sis'  Judy  pray. 

When  ol'  Sis'  Judy  pray, 
My  soul  go  sweepin'  up  on  wings, 
An'  loud  de  chu'ch  wid  "Glory!"  rings, 
An'  wide  de  gates  ur  Jahsper  swings 
Twel  you  hyuh  ha'ps  wid  golding  strings, 
When  ol'  Sis'  Judy  pray. 


James  Edwin  Campbell  25 


COMPENSATION 

O,  rich  young  lord,  thou  rfdest  by 
With  looks  of  high  disdain  ; 
It  chafes  me  not  thy  title  high, 
Thy  blood  of  oldest  strain. 
The  lady  riding  at  thy  side 
Is  but  in  name  thy  promised  bride, 
Ride  on,  young  lord,  ride  on ! 

Her  father  wills  and  she  obeys. 
The  custom  of  her  class ; 
'Tis  Land  not  Love  the  trothing  sways — 
For  Land  he  sells  his  lass. 
Her  fair  white  hand,  young  lord,  is  thine, 
Her  soul,  proud  fool,  her  soul  is  mine, 
Ride  on,  young  lord,  ride  on ! 

No  title  high  my  father  bore ; 
The  tenant  of  thy  farm. 
He  left  me  what  I  value  more : 
Clean  heart,  clear  brain,  strong  arm 
And  love  for  bird  and  beast  and  bee 
And  song  of  lark  and  hymn  of  sea, 
Ride  on,  young  lord,  ride  on ! 

The  boundless  sky  to  me  belongs, 
The  paltry  acres  thine ; 


26  James  Edwin  Campbell 

The  painted  beauty  sings  thy  songs, 
The  lavrock  lilts  me  mine ; 
The  hot-housed  orchid  blooms  for  thee, 
The  gorse  and  heather  bloom  for  me, 
Ride  on,  young  lord,  ride  on  I 


James  D.  Corrothers 

AT  THE  CLOSED  GATE  OF  JUSTICE 

To  be  a  Negro  in  a  day  like  this 

Demands  forgiveness.     Bruised  with  blow  on  blow, 
Betrayed,  like  him  whose  woe  dimmed  eyes  gave  bliss 

Still  must  one  succor  those  who  brought  one  low, 
To  be  a  Negro  in  a  day  like  this. 

To  be  a  Negro  in  a  day  like  this 

Demands  rare  patience — patience  that  can  wait 
In  utter  darkness.     Tis  the  path  to  miss, 

And  knock,  unheeded,  at  an  iron  gate, 
To  be  a  Negro  in  a  day  like  this. 

To  be  a  Negro  in  a  day  like  this 

Demands  strange  loyalty.    We  serve  a  flag 

Which  is  to  us  white  freedom's  emphasis. 

Ah !  one  must  love  when  Truth  and  Justice  lag, 

To  be  a  Negro  in  a  day  like  this. 

To  be  a  Negro  in  a  day  like  this — 

Alas!  Lord  God,  what  evil  have  we  done? 

Still  shines  the  gate,  all  gold  and  amethyst. 
But  I  pass  by,  the  glorious  goal  unwon, 

"Merely  a  Negro" — in  a  day  like  this! 
27 


28  James  D.   Corrothers 


PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 

He  came,  a  youth,  singing  in  the  dawn 
Of  a  new  freedom,  glowing  o'er  his  lyre, 
Refining,  as  with  great  Apollo's  fire, 
His  people's  gift  of  song.    And  thereupon, 

This  Negro  singer,  come  to  Helicon 

Constrained  the  masters,  listening  to  admire, 
And  roused  a  race  to  wonder  and  aspire, 
Gazing  which  way  their  honest  voice  was  gone, 

With  ebon  face  uplit  of  glory's  crest. 

Men  marveled  at  the  singer,  strong  and  sweet, 
Who  brought  the  cabin's  mirth,  the  tuneful  night, 

But  faced  the  morning,  beautiful  with  light. 
To  die  while  shadows  yet  fell  toward  the  west, 
And  leave  his  laurels  at  his  people's  feet. 

Dunbar,  no  poet  wears  your  laurels  now ; 
None  rises,  singing,  from  your  race  like  you. 
Dark  melodist,  immortal,  though  the  dew 
Fell  early  on  the  bays  upon  your  brow, 

And  tinged  with  pathos  every  halcyon  vow 
And  brave  endeavor.    Silence  o'er  you  threw 
Flowerets  of  love.    Or,  if  an  envious  few 
Of  your  own  people  brought  no  garlands,  how 

Could  Malice  smite  him  whom  the  gods  had  crowned? 
If,  like  the  meadow-lark,  your  flight  was  low 
Your  flooded  lyrics  half  the  hilltops  drowned ; 

A  wide  world  heard  you,  and  it  loved  you  so 
It  stilled  its  heart  to  list  the  strains  you  sang, 
And  o'er  your  happy  songs  its  plaudits  rang. 


James  D.  Corr others  29 


THE  NEGRO  SINGER 

O'er  all  my  song  the  image  of  a  face 

Lieth,  like  shadow  on  the  wild  sweet  flowers. 
The  dream,  the  ecstasy  that  prompts  my  powers ; 
The  golden  lyre's  delights  bring  little  grace 

To  bless  the  singer  of  a  lowly  race. 

Long  hath  this  mocked  me :  aye  in  marvelous  hours, 
When  Hera's  gardens  gleamed,  or  Cynthia's  bowers, 
Or  Hope's  red  pylons,  in  their  far,  hushed  place! 

But  I  shall  dig  me  deeper  to  the  gold ; 
Fetch  water,  dripping,  over  desert  miles, 
From  clear  Nyanzas  and  mysterious  Niles 

Of  love ;  and  sing,  nor  one  kind  act  withhold. 
So  shall  men  know  me,  and  remember  long, 
Nor  my  dark  face  dishonor  any  song. 


30  James  D.  Corr others 


THE  ROAD  TO  THE  BOW 

Ever  and  ever  anon, 

After  the  black  storm,  the  eternal,  beauteous  bow! 
Brother,  to  rosy-painted  mists  that  arch  beyond, 

Blithely  I  go. 

My  brows  men  laureled  and  my  lyre 

Twined  with  immortal  ivy  for  one  little  rippling  song; 
My  "House  of  Golden  Leaves"  they  praised  and  "passion- 
ate fire" — 

But,  Friend,  the  way  is  long ! 

Onward  and  onward,  up!  away! 

Though  Fear  flaunt  all  his  banners  in  my  face, 
And  my  feet  stumble,  lo !  the  Orphean  Day  I 

Forward  by  God's  grace! 

These  signs  are  still  before  me:  "Fear," 

"Danger,"  "Unprecedented,"  and  I  hear  black  "No" 
Still  thundering,  and  "Churl."    Good  Friend,  I  rest  me 
here — 

Then  to  the  glittering  bow  1 

Loometh  and  cometh  Hate  in  wrath. 

Mailed  Wrong,  swart  Servitude  and  Shame  with  bitter 
rue, 
Nathless  a  Negro  poet's  feet  must  tread  the  path 

The  winged  god  knew. 


James  D.  Corr others  31 

Thus,  my  true  Brother,  dream-led,  I 

Forefend  the  anathema,  following  the  span. 

I  hold  my  head  as  proudly  high 
As  any  man. 


32  James  D.  Corrothers 


IN  THE  MATTER  OF  TWO  MEN 

One  does  such  work  as  one  will  not, 

And  well  each  knows  the  right; 
Though  the  white  storm  howls,  or  the  sun  is  hot, 

The  black  must  serve  the  white. 
And  it's,  oh,  for  the  white  man's  softening  flesh, 

While  the  black  man's  muscles  grow ! 
Well  I  know  which  grows  the  mightier, 

/  know ;  full  well  I  know. 

The  white  man  seeks  the  soft,  fat  place, 

And  he  moves  and  he  works  by  rule. 
Ingenious  grows  the  humbler  race 

In  Oppression's  prodding  school. 
And  it's,  oh,  for  a  white  man  gone  to  seed, 

While  the  Negro  struggles  so  I 
And  I  know  which  race  develops  most, 

I  know;  yes,  well  I  know. 

The  white  man  rides  in  a  palace  car, 

And  the  Negro  rides  "Jim  Crow.'* 
To  damn  the  other  with  bolt  and  bar, 

One  creepeth  so  low;  so  low! 
And  it's,  oh,  for  a  master's  nose  in  the  mire. 

While  the  humbled  hearts  o'erflow  I 
Well  I  know  whose  soul  grows  big  at  this. 

And  whose  grows  small ;  /  know! 


James  D.  Corrothers  33 

The  white  man  leases  out  his  land, 

And  the  Negro  tills  the  same. 
One  works;  one  loafs  and  takes  command; 

But  I  know  who  wins  the  game! 
And  it's,  oh,  for  the  white  man's  shrinking  soil, 

As  the  black's  rich  acres  grow ! 
Well  I  know  how  the  signs  point  out  at  last, 

I  know;  ah,  well  I  know! 

The  white  man  votes  for  his  color's  sake. 

While  the  black,  for  his  is  barred ; 
(Though  "ignorance"  is  the  charge  they  make), 

But  the  black  man  studies  hard. 
And  it's,  oh,  for  the  white  man's  sad  neglect, 

For  the  power  of  his  light  let  go! 
So,  I  know  which  man  must  win  at  last, 

I  know!    Ah,  Friend,  I  know! 


34  James  D.  Corrothers 


AN  INDIGNATION  DINNER 

Dey  was  hard  times  jes  fo*  Christmas  round  our  neigh- 
borhood one  year; 

So  we  held  a  secret  meetin',  whah  de  white  folks  couldn't 
hear, 

To  'scuss  de  situation,  an'  to  see  what  could  be  done 

Towa'd  a  fust-class  Christmas  dinneh  an'  a  little  Christ- 
mas fun. 

Rufus  Green,  who  called  de  meetin',  ris  an'  said :  "In  dis 

here  town. 
An'  throughout  de  land,  de  white  folks  is  a-tryin'  to  keep 

us  down." 
S'  'e:  "Dey's  bought  us,  sold  us,  beat  us;  now  dey  'buse  us 

'ca'se  we's  free; 
But  when  dey  tetch  my  stomach,  dey's  done  gone  too  fur 

foh  me! 

"Is  I  right?"  "You  sho  is,  Rufus!"  roared  a  dozen  hun- 
gry throats. 

"Ef  you'd  keep  a  mule  a-wo'kin',  don't  you  tamper  wid  his 
oats. 

Dat's  sense,"  continued  Rufus.  "But  dese  white  folks 
nowadays 

Has  done  got  so  close  and  stingy  you  can't  live  on  what 
dey  pays. 

"Here    'tis    Christmas-time,    an*,    folkses,    I's    indignant 

'nough  to  choke. 
Whah's  our  Christmas  dinneh  comin'  when  we's  'mos' 

completely  broke? 


James  D.  Corrothers  35 

I  can't  hahdly  'fo'd  a  toothpick  an'  a  glass  o'  water. 

Mad? 
Say,  I'm  desp'ret!     Dey  jes  better  treat  me  nice,  dese 

white  folks  had!" 

Well,  dey  'bused  de  white  folks  scan'lous,  till  old  Pappy     ^ 

Simmons  ris, 
Leanin'  on  his  cane  to  s'pote  him,  on  account  his  rheu- 

matis', 
An'   s'   'e:   "Chilun,   whut's  dat  wintry  wind   a-sighin' 

th'ough  de  street 
'Bout  yo'  wasted  summeh  wages?    But,  no  matter,  we 

mus*  eat. 

"Now,  I  seed  a  beau'ful  tuhkey  on  a  certain  gemmun's 

fahm. 
He's  a-growin*  fat  an*  sassy,  an*  a-struttin*  to  a  chahm. 
Chickens,  sheeps,  hogs,  sweet  pertaters — all  de  craps  is 

fine  dis  year; 
All  we  needs  is  a  committee  foh  to  tote  de  goodies  here.** 

Well,  we  lit  right  m  an*  voted  dat  it  was  a  gran  idee, 
An'  de  dinneh  we  had  Christmas  was  worth  trabblin* 

miles  to  see; 
An*  we  eat  a  full  an*  plenty,  big  an*  little,  great  an*  small, 
Not  beca'se  we  was  dishonest,  but  indignant,  sah.    Dat's 

alL 


36  James  D,  Corrothers 


DREAM  AND  THE  SONG 

So  oft  our  hearts,  beloved  lute, 

In  blossomy  haunts  of  song  are  mute; 

So  long  we  pore,  'mid  murmurings  dull, 

O'er  loveliness  unutterable. 

So  vain  is  all  our  passion  strong! 

The  dream  is  lovelier  than  the  song. 

The  rose  thought,  touched  by  words,  doth  turn 

Wan  ashes.     Still,  from  memory's  urn, 

The  lingering  blossoms  tenderly 

Refute  our  wilding  minstrelsy. 

Alas!  we  work  but  beauty's  wrong! 

The  dream  is  lovelier  than  the  song. 

Yearned  Shelley  o'er  the  golden  flame? 
Left  Keats  for  beauty's  lure,  a  name 
But  "writ  in  water"?    Woe  is  me! 
To  grieve  o'er  flowerful  faery. 
My  Phasian  doves  are  flown  so  long — 
The  dream  is  lovelier  than  the  song! 

Ah,  though  we  build  a  bower  of  dawn,    ' 

The  golden-winged  bird  is  gone. 

And  morn  may  gild,  through  shimmering  leaves, 

Only  the  swallow-twittering  eaves. 

What  art  may  house  or  gold  prolong 

A  dream  far  lovelier  than  a  song? 


James  D.   Corrothers  37 

The  lilting  witchery,  the  unrest 

Of  winged  dreams,  is  in  our  breast ; 

But  ever  dear  Fulfilment's  eyes 

Gaze  otherward.    The  long-sought  prize, 

My  lute,  must  to  the  gods  belong. 

The  dream  is  lovelier  than  the  song. 


Daniel  Webster  Davis 

WEH  DOWN  SOUF 

O,  de  birds  ar'  sweetly  singin*, 

'Weh  down  Souf, 
An'  de  banjer  is  a-ringin*, 

'Weh  down  Souf; 
An'  my  heart  it  is  a-sighin', 
Whir  de  moments  am  a-flyin', 
Fur  my  horn'  I  am  a-cryin', 

'Weh  down  Souf. 

Dar  de  pickaninnies  's  playin*, 

'Weh  down  Souf, 
An'  fur  dem  I  am  a-prayin', 

'Weh  down  Souf; 
An'  when  I  gits  sum  munny, 
Yo'  kin  bet  I'm  goin',  my  hunny, 
Fur  de  Ian'  dat  am  so  sunny, 

'Weh  down  Souf. 

Whir  de  win'  up  here's  a-blowin*, 

'Weh  down  Souf 
De  corn  is  sweetly  growin', 

*Weh  down  Souf. 
Dey  tells  me  here  ub  freedum, 
But  I  ain't  a-gwine  to  heed  um, 
But  I'se  gwine  fur  to  lebe  um. 

Fur  'weh  down  Souf. 
39 


40  Daniel  Webster  Davis 

I  bin  up  here  a-wuckin', 

From  'weh  down  Souf, 
An*  I  ain't  a  bin  a-shurkin' — 

I'm  fnim  'weh  down  Souf; 
But  I'm  gittin'  mighty  werry, 
An'  de  days  a-gittin'  drerry, 
An'  I'm  hongry,  O,  so  berry, 
Fur  my  hom'  down  Souf. 

O,  de  moon  dar  shines  de  brighter, 

*Weh  down  Souf, 
An'  I  know  my  heart  is  lighter, 

'Weh  down  Souf; 
An'  de  berry  thought  brings  pledjur, 
I'll  be  happy  dar  'dout  medjur, 
Fur  dar  I  hab  my  tredjur, 

'Weh  down  Souf. 


Daniel  Webster  Davis  41 


HOG  MEAT 

Deze  eatin*  folks  may  tell  me  ub  de  gloriz  ub  spring  lam', 
An'  de  toofsumnis  ub  tuckey  et  wid  cel'ry  an'  wid  jam; 
Ub  beef-st'ak  fried  wid  unyuns,  an'  sezoned  up  so  fine — 
But  you'  jes'  kin  gimme  hog-meat,  an'  I'm  happy  all  de 
time. 

When  de  fros'  is  on  de  pun'kin  an'  de  sno'-flakes  in  de  ar', 
I  den  begin  rejoicin' — hog-killin'  time  is  near; 
An'  de  vizhuns  ub  de  fucher  den  fill  my  nightly  dreams, 
Fur  de  time  is  fas'  a-comin'  fur  de  'lishus  pork  an'  beans. 

We  folks  dat's  frum  de  kuntry  may  be  behin'  de  sun — 
We  don't  like  city  eatin's,  wid  beefsteaks  dat  ain'  done — 
'Dough  mutton  chops  is  splendid,  an'  dem  veal  cutlits 

fine, 
To  me  'tain't  like  a  sphar-rib,  or  gret  big  chunk  ub  chine. 

Jes*  talk  to  me  'bout  hog-meat,  ef  yo'  want  to  see  me 

pleased, 
Fur  biled  wid  beans  tiz  gor'jus,  or  made  in  hog-head 

cheese; 
An'  I  could  jes'  be  happy,  'dout  money,  cloze  or  house, 
Wid  plenty  yurz  an'  pig  feet  made  in  ol'-fashun  "souse." 

I  'fess  I'm  only  humun,  I  hab  my  joys  an'  cares — 
Sum  days  de  clouds  hang  hebby,  sum  days  de  skies  ar' 
fair; 


42  Daniel  Webster  Davis 

But  I  forgib  my  in'miz,  my  heart  is  free  frum  hate, 
When  my  bread  is  filled  wid  cracklins  an'  dar's  chidlins 
on  my  plate. 

'Dough  'possum  meat  is  glo'yus  wid  *taters  in  de  pan, 
But  put  'longside  pork  sassage  it  takes  a  backward  stan'; 
Ub  all  yer  fancy  eatin's,  jes  gib  to  me  fur  mine 
Sum  souse  or  pork  or  chidlins,  sum  sphar-rib,  or  de  chine. 


William  H.  A.  Moore 

DUSK  SONG 

The  garden  is  very  quiet  to-night, 
The  dusk  has  gone  with  the  Evening  Star, 
And  out  on  the  bay  a  lone  ship  light 
Makes  a  silver  pathway  over  the  bar 
Where  the  sea  sings  low. 

I  follow  the  light  with  an  earnest  eye, 
Creeping  along  to  the  thick  far-away, 
Until  it  fell  in  the  depths  of  the  deep,  dark  sky 
With  the  haunting  dream  of  the  dusk  of  day 
And  its  lovely  glow. 

Long  nights,  long  nights  and  the  whisperings  of  new  ones, 

Flame  the  line  of  the  pathway  down  to  the  sea 

With  the  halo  of  new  dreams  and  the  hallow  of  old  ones. 

And  they  bring  magic  light  to  my  love  reverie 

And  a  lover's  regret. 

Tender  sorrow  for  loss  of  a  soft  murmured  word, 
Tender  measure  of  doubt  in  a  faint,  aching  heart, 
Tender  listening  for  wind-songs  in  the  tree  heights  heard 
When  you  and  I  were  of  the  dusks  a  part, 
Are  with  me  yet. 

43 


44  William  H.  A,  Moore 

I  pray  for  faith  to  the  noble  spirit  of  Space, 
I  sound  the  cosmic  depths  for  the  measure  of  glory 
Which  will  bring  to  this  earth  the  imperishable  race 
Of  whom  Beauty  dreamed  in  the  soul-toned  story 
The  Prophets  told. 


Silence  and  love  and  deep  wonder  of  stars 
Dust-silver  the  heavens  from  west  to  east, 
From  south  to  north,  and  in  a  maze  of  bars 
Invisible  I  wander  far  from  the  feast 
As  night  grows  old. 

Half  blind  is  my  vision  I  know  to  the  truth, 
My  ears  are  half  deaf  to  the  voice  of  the  tear 
That  touches  the  silences  as  Autumn's  ruth 
Steals  thru  the  dusks  of  each  returning  year 
A  goodly  friend. 

The  Autumn,  then  Winter  and  wintertime's  grief! 
But  the  weight  of  the  snow  is  the  glistening  gift 
Which  loving  brings  to  the  rose  and  its  leaf, 
For  the  days  of  the  roses  glow  in  the  drift 
And  never  end. 


The  moon  has  come.    Wan  and  pallid  is  she. 
The  spell  of  half  memories,  the  touch  of  half  tears, 
And  the  wounds  of  worn  passions  she  brings  to  me 
With  all  the  tremor  of  the  far-off  years 
And  their  mad  wrong. 


William  H.  A.  Moore  45 

Yet  the  garden  is  very  quiet  to-night, 
The  dusk  has  long  gone  with  the  Evening  Star, 
And  out  on  the  bay  the  moon's  wan  light 
Lays  a  silver  pathway  beyond  the  bar, 
Dear  heart,  pale  and  long. 


46  William  H.  A.  Moore 


IT  WAS  NOT  FATE 

It  was  not  fate  which  overtook  me, 

Rather  a  wayward,  wilful  wind 

That  blew  hot  for  awhile 

And  then,  as  the  even  shadows  came,  blew  cold. 

What  pity  it  is  that  a  man  grown  old  in  life's  dreaming 

Should  stop,  e'en  for  a  moment,  to  look  into  a  woman's 

eyes. 
And  I  forgot! 
Forgot  that  one's  heart  must  be  steeled  against  the  east 

wind. 
Life  and  death  alike  come  out  of  the  East: 
Life  as  tender  as  young  grass, 
Death  as  dreadful  as  the  sight  of  clotted  blood. 
I  shall  go  back  into  the  darkness. 
Not  to  dream  but  to  seek  the  light  again. 
I  shall  go  by  paths,  mayhap. 
On  roads  that  wind  around  the  foothills 
Where  the  plains  are  bare  and  wild 
And  the  passers-by  come  few  and  far  between. 
I  want  the  night  to  be  long,  the  moon  blind, 
The  hills  thick  with  moving  memories. 
And  my  heart  beating  a  breathless  requiem 
For  all  the  dead  days  I  have  lived. 
When  the  Dawn  comes — Dawn,  deathless,  dreaming— 
I  shall  will  that  my  soul  must  be  cleansed  of  hate, 
I  shall  pray  for  strength  to  hold  children  close  to  my 

heart. 


William  H.  A.  Moore  47 

I  shall  desire  to  build  houses  where  the  poor  will  know 
shelter,  comfort,  beauty. 

And  then  may  I  look  into  a  woman's  eyes 

And  find  holiness,  love  and  the  peace  which  passeth  un- 
derstanding. 


W.  E.  Burghardt  Du  Bois 

A  LITANY  OF  ATLANTA 

Done  at  Atlanta,  in  the  Day  of  Death,  1906 

O  Silent  God,  Thou  whose  voice  afar  in  mist  and  mys- 
tery hath  left  our  ears  an-hungered  in  these  fearful  days — 
Hear  us,  good  Lord! 

Listen  to  us,  Thy  children:  our  faces  dark  with  doubt 
are  made  a  mockery  in  Thy  sanctuary.     With  uplifted 
hands  we  front  Thy  heaven,  O  God,  crying: 
We  beseech  Thee  to  hear  us,  good  Lord! 

We  are  not  better  than  our  fellows.  Lord,  we  are  but 
weak  and  human  men.  When  our  devils  do  deviltry, 
curse  Thou  the  doer  and  the  deed :  curse  them  as  we  curse 
them,  do  to  them  all  and  more  than  ever  they  have  done 
to  innocence  and  weakness,  to  womanhood  and  home. 
Have  mercy  upon  us,  miserable  sinners! 

And  yet  whose  is  the  deeper  guilt?  Who  made  these 
devils?  Who  nursed  them  in  crime  and  fed  them  on  in- 
justice? Who  ravished  and  debauched  their  mothers  and 
their  grandmothers?  Who  bought  and  sold  their  crime, 
and  waxed  fat  and  rich  on  public  iniquity? 
Thou  knowestj  good  God! 

49 


50  W.  E.  Burghardt  Du  Bois 

Is  this  Thy  justice,  O  Father,  that  guile  be  easier  than 
innocence,  and  the  innocent  crucified  for  the  guilt  of  the 
untouched  guilty? 

Justice,  O  judge  of  men  I 

Wherefore  do  we  pray?  Is  not  the  God  of  the  fathers 
dead?  Have  not  seers  seen  in  Heaven's  halls  Thine 
hearsed  and  lifeless  form  stark  amidst  the  black  and  roll- 
ing smoke  of  sin,  vv^here  all  along  bow  bitter  forms  of 
endless  dead? 

Awake,  Thou  that  sleepest! 

Thou  art  not  dead,  but  flown  afar,  up  hills  of  endless 
light,  thru  blazing  corridors  of  suns,  where  worlds  do 
swing  of  good  and  gentle  men,  of  women  strong  and 
free — far  from  the  cozenage,  black  hypocrisy  and  chaste 
prostitution  of  this  shameful  speck  of  dust! 

Turn  agaiUjO  Lord, leave  us  not  to  perish  in  our  sin! 

From  lust  of  body  and  lust  of  blood 
Great  God,  deliver  us! 

From  lust  of  power  and  lust  of  gold, 
Great  God,  deliver  us! 

From  the  leagued  lying  of  despot  and  of  brute, 
Great  God,  deliver  us! 

A  city  lay  in  travail,  God  our  Lord,  and  from  her 
loins  sprang  twin  Murder  and  Black  Hate.  Red  was 
the  midnight ;  clang,  crack  and  cry  of  death  and  fury  filled 


W,  E.  Burghardt  Du  Bois  51 

the  air  and  trembled  underneath  the  stars  when  church 
spires  pointed  silently  to  Thee.  And  all  this  was  to  sate 
the  greed  of  greedy  men  who  hide  behind  the  veil  of 
vengeance ! 

Bend  us  Thine  ear,  O  Lord! 


In  the  pale,  still  morning  we  looked  upon  the  deed. 
We  stopped  our  ears  and  held  our  leaping  hands,  but  they 
— did  they  not  wag  their  heads  and  leer  and  cry  with 
bloody  jaws:  Cease  from  Crime!  The  word  was  mock- 
cry,  for  thus  they  train  a  hundred  crimes  while  we  do 
cure  one. 

Turn  again  our  captivity,  O  Lord! 

Behold  this  maimed  and  broken  thing;  dear  God,  it  was 
an  humble  black  man  who  toiled  and  sweat  to  save  a  bit 
from  the  pittance  paid  him.  They  told  him :  Work  and 
Rise.  He  worked.  Did  this  man  sin?  Nay,  but  some 
one  told  how  some  one  said  another  did — one  whom  he 
had  never  seen  nor  known.  Yet  for  that  man*s  crime  this 
man  lieth  maimed  and  murdered,  his  wife  naked  to 
shame,  his  children,  to  poverty  and  evil. 
Hear  us,  O  Heavenly  Father! 

Doth  not  this  justice  of  hell  stink  in  Thy  nostrils, 
O  God  ?  How  long  shall  the  mounting  flood  of  innocent 
blood  roar  in  Thine  ears  and  pound  in  our  hearts  for 
vengeance?  Pile  the  pale  frenzy  of  blood-crazed  brutes 
who  do  such  deeds  high  on  Thine  altar,  Jehovah  Jireh, 
and  burn  it  in  hell  forever  and  forever ! 

Forgive  us,  good  Lord;  we  know  not  what  we  say! 


52  W.  E.  Burghardt  Du  Bois 

Bewildered  we  are,  and  passion-tost,  mad  with  the  mad- 
ness of  a  mobbed  and  mocked  and  murdered  people; 
straining  at  the  armposts  of  Thy  Throne,  we  raise  our 
shackled  hands  and  charge  Thee,  God,  by  the  bones  of 
our  stolen  fathers,  by  the  tears  of  our  dead  mothers,  by 
the  very  blood  of  Thy  crucified  Christ:  What  meaneth 
this?  Tell  us  the  Plan;  give  us  the  Sign! 
Keep  not  thou  silence,  O  God! 

Sit  no  longer  blind.   Lord  God,   deaf  to  our  prayer 
and  dumb  to  our  dumb  suffering.     Surely  Thou  too  art 
not  white,  O  Lord,  a  pale,  bloodless,  heartless  thing? 
Ah!  Christ  of  ell  the  Pities! 

Forgive  the  thought !  Forgive  these  wild,  blasphemous 
words.  Thou  art  still  the  God  of  our  black  fathers,  and 
in  Thy  soul's  soul  sit  some  soft  darkenings  of  the  even- 
ing, some  shadowings  of  the  velvet  night. 

But  whisper — speak — call,  great  God,  for  Thy  silence 
is  white  terror  to  our  hearts!  The  way,  O  God,  show 
us  the  way  and  point  us  the  path. 

Whither  ?    North  is  greed  and  South  is  blood ;  within, 
the  coward,  and  without,  the  liar.    Whither  ?    To  death  ? 
Amen!    Welcome  dark  sleep! 

Whither?  To  life?  But  jiot  this  life,  dear  God,  not 
this.  Let  the  cup  pass  from  us,  tempt  us  not  beyond 
our  strength,  for  there  is  that  clamoring  and  clawing 
within,  to  whose  voice  we  would  not  listen,  yet  shudder 


W,  E.  Burghardt  Du  Bois  53 

lest  we  must,  and  it  is  red,  Ah!  God!     It  is  a  red  and 
awful  shape. 
Selah/ 

In  yonder  East  trembles  a  star. 

Vengeance  is  mine;  I  will  repay,  saith  the  Lord! 

Thy  will,  O  Lord,  be  done ! 
Kyrie  Eleison! 

Lord,  we  have  done  these  pleading,  wavering  words. 
JVe  beseech  Thee  to  hear  us,  good  Lord! 

We  bow  our  heads  and  hearken  soft  to  the  sobbing  of 
women  and  little  children. 

We  beseech  Thee  to  hear  us,  good  Lord! 

Our  voices  sink  in  silence  and  in  night. 
Hear  us,  good  Lord! 

In  night,  O  God  of  a  godless  land ! 
Amen! 

In  silence,  O  Silent  God. 
Selah! 


George  Marion  McClellan 

DOGWOOD  BLOSSOMS 

To  dreamy  languors  and  the  violet  mist 

Of  early  Spring,  the  deep  sequestered  vale 
Gives  first  her  paling-blue  Miamimist, 

Where  blithely  pours  the  cuckoo's  annual  tale 
Of  Summer  promises  and  tender  green, 

Of  a  new  life  and  beauty  yet  unseen. 
The  forest  trees  have  yet  a  sighing  mouth, 

Where  dying  winds  of  March  their  branches  swing, 
While  upward  from  the  dreamy,  sunny  South, 

A  hand  invisible  leads  on  the  Spnng, 

His  rounds  from  bloom 'to  bloom  the  bee  begins 

With  flying  song,  and  cowslip  wine  he  sups. 
Where  to  the  warm  and  passing  southern  winds, 

Azaleas  gently  swing  their  yellow  cups. 
Soon  everywhere,  with  glory  through  and  through, 

The  fields  will  spread  with  every  brilliant  hue. 
But  high  o'er  all  the  early  floral  train, 

Where  softness  all  the  arching  sky  resumes. 
The  dogwood  dancing  to  the  winds'  refrain. 

In  stainless  glory  spreads  its  snowy  blooms. 


55 


56  George  Marion  McClellan 


A  BUTTERFLY  IN  CHURCH 

What  dost  thou  here,  thou  shining,  sinless  thing.. 
With  many  colored  hues  and  shapely  wing? 
Why  quit  the  open  field  and  summer  air 
To  flutter  here?    Thou  hast  no  need  of  pray«r. 

*Tis  meet  that  we,  who  this  great  structure  built, 
Should  come  to  be  redeemed  and  washed  from  guilt, 
For  we  this  gilded  edifice  within 
Are  come,  with  erring  hearts  and  stains  of  sin. 

But  thou  art  free  from  guilt  as  God  on  high; 
Go,  seek  the  blooming  waste  and  open  sky, 
And  leave  us  here  our  secret  woes  to  bear, 
Confessionals  and  agonies  of  prayer. 


George  Marion  McClellan  57 


THE  HILLS  OF  SEWANEE 

Sewanee  Hills  of  dear  delight, 

Prompting  my  dreams  that  used  to  be, 
I  know  you  are  waiting  me  still  to-night 

By  the  Unika  Range  of  Tennessee. 

The  blinking  stars  in  endless  space, 

The  broad  moonlight  and  silvery  gleams, 

To-night  caress  your  wind-swept  face, 
And  fold  you  in  a  thousand  dreams. 

Your  far  outlines,  less  seen  than  felt. 
Which  wind  with  hill  propensities, 

In  moonlight  dreams  I  see  you  melt 
Away  in  vague  immensities. 

And,  far  away,  I  still  can  feel 
Your  mystery  that  ever  speaks 

Of  vanished  things,  as  shadows  steal 
Across  your  breast  and  rugged  peaks. 

O,  dear  blue  hills,  that  lie  apart. 
And  wait  so  patiently  down  there. 

Your  peace  takes  hold  upon  my  heart 
And  makes  its  burden  less  to  bear. 


58  George  Marion  McClellan 


THE  FEET  OF  JUDAS 

Christ  washed  the  feet  of  Judas ! 

The  dark  and  evil  passions  of  his  soul, 

His  secret  plot,  and  sordidness  complete, 

His  hate,  his  purposing,  Christ  knew  the  whole, 

And  still  in  love  he  stooped  and  washed  his  feet. 

Christ  washed  the  feet  of  Judas! 

Yet  all  his  lurking  sin  was  bare  to  him, 

His  bargain  with  the  priest,  and  more  than  this, 

In  Olivet,  beneath  the  moonlight  dim, 

Aforehand  knew  and  felt  his  treacherous  kiss. 

Christ  washed  the  feet  of  Judas! 
And  so  ineffable  his  love  'twas  meet. 
That  pity  fill  his  great  forgiving  heart. 
And  tenderly  to  wash  the  traitor's  feet. 
Who  in  his  Lord  had  basely  sold  his  part. 

Christ  washed  the  feet  of  Judas! 

And  thus  a  girded  servant,  self-abased. 

Taught  that  no  wrong  this  side  the  gate  of  heaven 

Was  ever  too  great  to  wholly  be  effaced. 

And  though  unasked,  in  spirit  be  forgiven. 

And  so  if  we  have  ever  felt  the  wrong 
Of  Trampled  rights,  of  caste,  it  matters  not, 
What  e'er  the  soul  has  felt  or  suffered  long, 
Oh,  heart!  this  one  thing  should  not  be  forgot: 
Christ  washed  the  feet  of  Judas. 


William  Stanley  Braithwaite 

SANDY  STAR  AND  WILLIE  GEE 

Sandy  Star  and  Willie  Gee, 
Count  'em  two,  you  make  'em  three: 
Pluck  the  man  and  boy  apart 
And  you'll  see  into  my  heart. 


59 


6o  William  Stanley  Braithwaite 


SANDY  STAR 

I 

Sculptured  Worship 
The  zones  of  warmth  around  his  heart, 

No  alien  airs  had  crossed ; 
But  he  awoke  one  morn  to  feel 

The  magic  numbness  of  autumnal  frost. 

His  thoughts  were  a  loose  skein  of  threads, 
And  tangled  emotions,  vague  and  dim; 

And  sacrificing  what  he  loved 
He  lost  the  dearest  part  of  him. 

In  sculptured  worship  now  he  lives, 
His  one  desire  a  prisoned  ache; 

If  he  can  never  melt  again 
His  very  heart  will  break. 

II 
Laughing  It  Out 
He  had  a  whim  and  laughed  it  out 

Upon  the  exit  of  a  chance; 
He  floundered  in  a  sea  of  doubt — 
If  life  was  real — or  just  romance. 

Sometimes  upon  his  brow  would  come 

A  little  pucker  of  defiance ; 
He  totalled  in  a  word  the  sum 

Of  all  man  made  of  facts  and  science. 


William  Stanley  Braithwaite  6i 

And  then  a  hearty  laugh  would  break, 

A  reassuring  shrug  of  shoulder; 
And  we  would  from  his  fancy  take 

A  faith  in  death  which  made  life  bolder. 


Ill 
Exit 

No,  his  exit  by  the  gate 

Will  not  leave  the  wind  ajar; 

He  will  go  when  it  is  late 
With  a  misty  star. 

One  will  call,  he  cannot  see; 

One  will  call,  he  will  not  hear; 
He  will  take  no  company 

Nor  a  hope  or  fear. 

We  shall  smile  who  loved  him  so — 
They  who  gave  him  hate  will  weep ; 

But  for  us  the  winds  will  blow 
Pulsing  through  his  sleep. 

IV 
The  Way 

He  could  not  tell  the  way  he  came, 
Because  his  chart  was  lost: 

Yet  all  his  way  was  paved  with  flame 
From  the  bourne  he  crossed. 


62  William  Stanley  Braithwaite 

He  did  not  know  the  way  to  go, 

Because  he  had  no  map : 
He  followed  where  the  winds  blow, — 

And  the  April  sap. 

He  never  knew  upon  his  brow 
The  secret  that  he  bore, — 

And  laughs  away  the  mystery  now 
The  dark's  at  his  door. 

V 

Onus  Probandi 

No  more  from  out  the  sunset, 
No  more  across  the  foam, 

No  more  across  the  windy  hills 
Will  Sandy  Star  come  home. 

He  went  away  to  search  it 
With  a  curse  upon  his  tongue: 

And  in  his  hand  the  staff  of  life, 
Made  music  as  it  swung. 

I  wonder  if  he  found  it, 

And  knows  the  mystery  now — 

Our  Sandy  Star  who  went  away, 
With  the  secret  on  his  brow. 


William  Stanley  Braithwaite  63 


DEL  CASCAR 

Del  Cascar,  Del  Cascar, 

Stood  upon  a  flaming  star, 

Stood,  and  let  his  feet  hang  down 

Till  in  China  the  toes  turned  brown. 

And  he  reached  his  fingers  over 
The  rim  of  the  sea,  like  sails  from  Dover, 
And  caught  a  Mandarin  at  prayer, 
And  tickled  his  nose  in  Orion's  hair. 

The  sun  went  down  through  crimson  bars, 
And  left  his  blind  face  battered  with  stars — 
But  the  brown  toes  in  China  kept 
Hot  the  tears  Del  Cascar  wept. 


64  William  Stanley  Braithwaite 


TURN  ME  TO  MY  YELLOW  LEAVES 

Turn  me  to  my  yellow  leaves, 

I  am  better  satisfied; 

There  is  something  in  me  grieves — 

That  was  never  born,  and  died. 

Let  me  be  a  scarlet  flame 

On  a  windy  autumn  morn, 

I  who  never  had  a  name, 

Nor  from  breathing  image  born. 

From  the  margin  let  me  fall 

Where  the  farthest  stars  sink  down. 

And  the  void  consumes  me, — all 

In  nothingness  to  drown. 

Let  me  dream  my  dream  entire. 

Withered  as  an  autumn  leaf — 

Let  me  have  my  vain  desire. 

Vain — as  it  is  brief. 


William  Stanley  Braithwaite  65 


IRONIC:  LL.D. 

There  are  no  hollows  any  more 

Between  the  mountains;  the  prairie  floor 

Is  like  a  curtain  with  the  drape 

Of  the  winds*  invisible  shape; 

And  nowhere  seen  and  nowhere  heard 

The  sea's  quiet  as  a  sleeping  bird. 

Now  we're  traveling,  what  holds  back 

Arrival,  in  the  very  track 

Where  the  urge  put  forth ;  so  we  stay 

And  move  a  thousand  miles  a  day. 

Time's  a  Fancy  ringing  bells 

Whose  meaning,  charlatan  history,  tells! 


66  William  Stanley  Braithwaite 


SCINTILLA 

I  kissed  a  kiss  in  youth 
Upon  a  dead  man's  brow; 

And  that  was  long  ago, — 
And  I'm  a  grown  man  now. 

It's  lain  there  in  the  dust, 
Thirty  years  and  more; — 

My  lips  that  set  a  light 
At  a  dead  man's  door. 


William  Stanley  Braithwaite  67 


SIC  VITA 

Heart  free,  hand  free, 

Blue  above,  brown  under, 
All  the  world  to  me 

Is  a  place  of  wonder. 
Sun  shine,  moon  shine, 

Stars,  and  winds  a-blowing, 
All  into  this  heart  of  mine 

Flowing,  flowing,  flowing! 

Mind  free,  step  free, 

Days  to  follow  after, 
Joys  of  life  sold  to  me 

For  the  price  of  laughter. 
Girl's  love,  man's  love. 

Love  of  work  and  duty. 
Just  a  will  of  God's  to  prove 

Beauty,  beauty,  beauty! 


68  William  Stanley  Braithwaite 


RHAPSODY 

I  am  glad  daylong  for  the  gift  of  song, 

For  time  and  change  and  sorrow; 

For  the  sunset  wings  and  the  world-end  things 

Which  hang  on  the  edge  of  to-morrow. 

I  am  glad  for  my  heart  whose  gates  apart 

Are  the  entrance-place  of  wonders, 

Where  dreams  come  in  from  the  rush  and  din 

Like  sheep  from  the  rains  and  thunders. 


George  Reginald  Margetson 

STANZAS  FROM 

THE  FLEDGLING  BARD  AND  THE  POETRY 
SOCIETY 

Part  I 

Ym  out  to  find  the  new,  the  modem  school, 

Where  Science  trains  the  fledgling  bard  to  fly, 

Where  critics  teach  the  ignorant,  the  fool, 

To  write  the  stuff  the  editors  would  buy; 

It  matters  not  e'en  tho  it  be  a  lie, — 

Just  so  it  aims  to  smash  tradition's  crown 

And  build  up  one  instead  decked  with  a  new  renown. 

A  thought  is  haunting  me  by  night  and  day, 
And  in  some  safe  archive  I  seek  to  lay  it ; 
I  have  some  startling  thing  I  wish  to  say, 
And  they  can  put  me  wise  just  how  to  say  it. 
Without  their  aid,  I,  like  the  ass,  must  bray  it. 
Without  due  knowledge  of  its  mood  and  tense, 
And  so  'tis  sure  to  fail  the  bard  to  recompense. 

Will  some  kind  one  direct  me  to  that  college 
Where  every  budding  genius  now  is  headed. 
The  only  source  to  gain  poetic  knowledge. 
Where  all  the  sacred  truths  lay  deep  imbedded, 
69 


70  George  Reginald  Margetson 

Where  nothing  but  the  genuine  goods  are  shredded, — 
The  factory  where  they  shape  new  feet  and  meters 
That  make  poetic  symbols  sound  like  carpet  beaters. 

I  hope  I'll  be  an  eligible  student, 

E'en  tho  I  am  no  poet  in  a  sense, 

But  just  a  hot-head  youth  with  ways  imprudent, — 

A  rustic  ranting  rhymer  like  by  chance 

Who  thinks  that  he  can  make  the  muses  dance 

By  beating  on  some  poet's  borrowed  lyre, 

To  win  some  fool's  applause  and  please  his  own  desire. 

Perhaps  they'll  never  know  or  e'en  suspect 

That  I  am  not  a  true,  a  genuine  poet; 

If  in  the  poet's  colors  I  am  decked 

They  may  not  ask  me  e'er  to  prove  or  show  it. 

I'll  play  the  wise  old  cock,  nor  try  to  crow  it, 

But  be  content  to  gaze  with  open  mind ; 

I'll  never  show  the  lead  but  eye  things  from  behind. 


Part  11 

I  have  a  problem  all  alone  to  solve, 

A  problem  how  to  find  the  poetry  club. 

It  makes  my  sky  piece  like  a  top  revolve, 

For  fear  that  they  might  mark  me  for  a  snob. 

They'll  call  me  poetry  monger  and  then  dub 

Me  rustic  rhymer,  anything  they  choose, 

Ay,  anything  at  all,  but  heaven's  immortal  muse. 


George  Reginald  Margetson  71 

Great  Byron,  when  he  published  his  Childe  book, 
In  which  he  sang  of  all  his  lovely  dears, 
Called  forth  hot  condemnation  and  cold  look, 
From  lesser  mortals  who  were  not  his  peers. 
They  chided  him  for  telling  his  affairs. 
Because  they  could  not  tell  their  own  so  well. 
They  plagued  the  poet  lord  and  made  his  life  a  hell. 

They  called  him  lewd,  vile  drunkard,  vicious  wight, 

And  all  because  he  dared  to  tell  the  truth. 

Because  he  was  no  cursed  hermaphrodite, — 

A  full  fledged  genius  with  the  fire  of  youth. 

They  hounded  him,  they  hammered  him  forsooth; 

Because  he  blended  human  with  divine. 

They  branded  him  "the  bard  of  women  and  of  wine." 

Of  course  I  soak  the  booze  once  in  a  while. 
But  I  don't  wake  the  town  to  sing  and  shout  it; 
I  love  the  girls,  they  win  me  with  a  smile. 
But  no  one  knows,  for  I  won't  write  about  it. 
And  so  the  fools  may  never  think  to  doubt  it, 
When  I  declare  I  am  a  moral  man. 
As  gifted,  yet  as  good  as  God  did  ever  plan. 


Every  man  has  got  a  hobby. 
Every  poet  has  some  fault. 
Every  sweet  contains  its  bitter, 
Every  fresh  thing  has  its  salt. 

Every  mountain  has  a  valley, 
Every  valley  has  a  hill. 
Every  ravine  is  a  river, 
Every  river  is  a  rill. 


72  George  Reginald  Margetson 

Every  fool  has  got  some  wisdom, 

Every  wise  man  is  a  fool, 

Every  scholar  is  a  block-head, 

Every  dunce  has  been  to  school. 

Every  bad  man  is  a  good  man, 
Every  fat  man  is  not  stout, 
Every  good  man  is  a  bad  man 
But  *tis  hard  to  find  him  out. 

Every  strong  man  is  a  weak  man, 
You  may  doubt  it  as  you  please. 
Every  well  man  is  a  sick  man. 
Every  doctor  has  disease. 


James  Weldon  Johnson 

O  BLACK  AND  UNKNOWN  BARDS 

O  black  and  unknown  bards  of  long  ago, 
How  came  your  lips  to  touch  the  sacred  fire? 
How,  in  your  darkness,  did  you  come  to  know 
The  power  and  beauty  of  the  minstrel's  lyre? 
Who  first  from  midst  his  bonds  lifted  his  eyes? 
Who  first  from  out  the  still  watch,  lone  and  long, 
Feeling  the  ancient  faith  of  prophets  rise 
Within  his  dark-kept  soul,  burst  into  song? 

Heart  of  what  slave  poured  out  such  melody 

As  "Steal  away  to  Jesus"  ?    On  its  strains 

His  spirit  must  have  nightly  floated  free. 

Though  still  about  his  hands  he  felt  his  chains. 

Who  heard  great  "Jordan  roll"?    Whose  starward  eye 

Saw  chariot  "swing  low"  ?    And  who  was  he 

That  breathed  that  comforting,  melodic  sigh, 

"Nobody  knows  de  trouble  I  see"? 

What  merely  living  clod,  what  captive  thing, 
Could  up  toward  God  through  all  its  darkness  grope. 
And  find  within  its  deadened  heart  to  sing 
These  songs  of  sorrow,  love  and  faith,  and  hope? 
How  did  it  catch  that  subtle  undertone. 
That  note  in  music  heard  not  with  the  ears? 
73 


74  James  Weldon  Johnson 

How  sound  the  elusive  reed  so  seldom  blown, 
Which  stirs  the  soul  or  melts  the  heart  to  tears. 


Not  that  great  German  master  in  his  dream 

Of  harmonies  that  thundered  amongst  the  stars 

At  the  creation,  ever  heard  a  theme 

Nobler  than  "Go  down,  Moses."     Mark  its  bars 

How  like  a  mighty  trumpet-call  they  stir 

The  blood.    Such  are  the  notes  that  men  have  sung 

Going  to  valorous  deeds ;  such  tones  there  were 

That  helped  make  history  when  Time  was  young. 

There  is  a  wide,  wide  wonder  in  it  all, 

That  from  degraded  rest  and  servile  toil 

The  fiery  spirit  of  the  seer  should  call 

These  simple  children  of  the  sun  and  soil. 

O  black  slave  singers,  gone,  forgot,  unfamed, 

You — you  alone,  of  all  the  long,  long  line 

Of  those  who've  sung  untaught,  unknown,  unnamed, 

Have  stretched  out  upward,  seeking  the  divine. 

You  sang  not  deeds  of  heroes  or  of  kings ; 
No  chant  of  bloody  war,  no  exulting  pean 
Of  arms-won  triumphs ;  but  your  humble  strings 
You  touched  in  chord  with  music  empyrean. 
You  sang  far  better  than  you  knew;  the  songs 
That  for  your  listeners*  hungry  hearts  sufficed 
Still  live, — ^but  more  than  this  to  you  belongs : 
You  sang  a  race  from  wood  and  stone  to  Christ. 


James  Weldon  Johnson  75 


SENCE  YOU  WENT  AWAY 

Seems  lak  to  me  de  stars  don't  shine  so  bright, 
Seems  lak  to  me  de  sun  done  loss  his  light, 
Seems  lak  to  me  der's  nothin'  goin'  right, 
Sence  you  went  away. 

Seems  lak  to  me  de  sky  ain't  half  so  blue. 
Seems  lak  to  me  dat  ev'ything  wants  you, 
Seems  lak  to  me  I  don't  know  what  to  do, 
Sence  you  went  away. 

Seems  lak  to  me  dat  ev'ything  is  wrong, 
Seems  lak  to  me  de  day's  jes  twice  es  long, 
Seems  lak  to  me  de  bird's  forgot  his  song, 
Sence  you  went  away. 

Seems  lak  to  me  I  jes  can't  he'p  but  sigh, 
Seems  lak  to  me  ma  th'oat  keeps  gittin'  dry, 
Seems  lak  to  me  a  tear  stays  in  ma  eye, 
Sence  you  went  away. 


76  James  Weldon  Johnson 


THE  CREATION 

{A  Negro  Sermon) 

And  God  stepped  out  on  space, 
And  He  looked  around  and  said, 
^Tm  lonely — 
ril  make  me  a  world/' 

And  far  as  the  eye  of  God  could  see 
Darkness  covered  everything, 
Blacker  than  a  hundred  midnights 
Down  in  a  cypress  swamp. 

Then  God  smiled, 

And  the  light  broke, 

And  the  darkness  rolled  up  on  one  side, 

And  the  light  stood  shining  on  the  other, 

And  God  said,  ''That's  good!" 

Then  God  reached  out  and  took  the  light  in  His  hands, 

And  God  rolled  the  light  around  in  His  hands 

Until  He  made  the  sun; 

And  He  set  that  sun  a-blazing  in  the  heavens. 

And  the  light  that  was  left  from  making  the  sun 

God  gathered  it  up  in  a  shining  ball 

And  flung  it  against  the  darkness. 

Spangling  the  night  with  the  moon  and  stars. 

Then  down  between 

The  darkness  and  the  light 

He  hurled  the  world ; 

And  God  said,  ''That's  goodr 


James  Weldon  Johnson  77 

Then  God  himself  stepped  down — 
And  the  sun  was  on  His  right  hand, 
And  the  moon  was  on  His  left; 
The  stars  were  clustered  about  His  head, 
And  the  earth  was  under  His  feet. 
And  God  walked,  and  where  He  trod 
His  footsteps  hollowed  the  valleys  out 
And  bulged  the  mountains  up. 

Then  He  stopped  and  looked  and  saw 

That    the  earth  was  hot  and  barren. 

So  God  stepped  over  to  the  edge  of  the  world 

And  He  spat  out  the  seven  seas; 

He  batted  His  eyes,  and  the  lightnings  flashed ; 

He  clapped  His  hands,  and  the  thunders  rolled ; 

And  the  waters  above  the  earth  came  down, 

The  cooling  waters  came  down. 

Then  the  green  grass  sprouted. 

And  the  little  red  flowers  blossomed. 

The  pine  tree  pointed  his  finger  to  the  sky, 

And  the  oak  spread  out  his  arms. 

The  lakes  cuddled  down  in  the  hollows  of  the  ground, 

And  the  rivers  ran  down  to  the  sea; 

And  God  smiled  again, 

And  the  rainbow  appeared, 

And  curled  itself  around  His  shoulder. 

Then  God  raised  His  arm  and  He  waved  His  Hand 
Over  the  sea  and  over  the  land, 
And  He  said,  ''Bring  forth!    Bring  forth/'" 
And  quicker  than  God  could  drop  His  hand. 


78  James  Weldon  Johnson 

Fishes  and  fowls 

And  beasts  and  birds 

Swam  the  rivers  and  the  seas, 

Roamed  the  forests  and  the  woods, 

And  split  the  air  with  their  wings. 

And  God  said,  ''That's  good!" 


Then  God  walked  around, 

And  God  looked  around 

On  all  that  He  had  made. 

He  looked  at  His  sun, 

And  He  looked  at  His  moon, 

And  He  looked  at  His  little  stars; 

He  looked  on  His  world 

With  all  its  living  things, 

And  God  said,  "Tm  lonely  still" 

Then  God  sat  down 

On  the  side  of  a  hill  where  He  could  think; 

By  a  deep,  wide  river  He  sat  down; 

With  His  head  in  His  hands, 

God  thought  and  thought. 

Till  He  thought,  "Til  make  me  a  man!" 

Up  from  the  bed  of  the  river 

God  scooped  the  clay; 

And  by  the  bank  of  the  river 

He  kneeled  Him  down; 

And  there  the  great  God  Almighty 

Who  lit  the  sun  and  fixed  it  in  the  sky. 


James  Weldon  Johnson  79 

Who  flung  the  stars  to  the  most  far  corner  of  the  night, 

Who  rounded  the  earth  in  the  middle  of  His  hand ; 

This  Great  God, 

Like  a  mammy  bending  over  her  baby, 

Kneeled  down  in  the  dust 

Toiling  over  a  lump  of  clay 

Till  He  shaped  it  in  His  own  image; 

Then  into  it  He  blew  the  breath  of  life, 
And  man  became  a  living  soul. 
Amen.    Amen. 


8o  James  Wei  don  Johnson 


THE  WHITE  WITCH 

O  brothers  mine,  take  care !    Take  care ! 
The  great  white  witch  rides  out  to-night. 
Trust  not  your  prowess  nor  your  strength, 
Your  only  safety  lies  in  flight ; 
For  in  her  glance  there  is  a  snare, 
And  in  her  smile  there  is  a  blight. 

The  great  white  witch  you  have  not  seen? 
Then,  younger  brothers  mine,  forsooth, 
Like  nursery  children  you  have  looked 
For  ancient  hag  and  snaggle-tooth ; 
But  no,  not  so ;  the  witch  appears 
In  all  the  glowing  charms  of  youth. 

Her  lips  are  like  carnations,  red, 
Her  face  like  new-born  lilies,  fair, 
Her  eyes  like  ocean  waters,  blue, 
She  moves  with  subtle  grace  and  air, 
And  all  about  her  head  there  floats 
The  golden  glory  of  her  hair. 

But  though  she  always  thus  appears 
In  form  of  youth  and  mood  of  mirth. 
Unnumbered  centuries  are  hers, 
The  infant  planets  saw  her  birth; 
The  child  of  throbbing  Life  is  she, 
Twin  sister  to  the  greedy  earth. 


James  Weldon  Johnson  8l 

And  back  behind  those  smiling  lips, 
And  down  within  those  laughing  eyes, 
And  underneath  the  soft  caress 
Of  hand  and  voice  and  purring  sighs, 
The  shadow  of  the  panther  lurks, 
The  spirit  of  the  vampire  lies. 

For  I  have  seen  the  great  white  witch. 
And  she  has  led  me  to  her  lair, 
And  I  have  kissed  her  red,  red  lips 
And  cruel  face  so  white  and  fair; 
Around  me  she  has  twined  her  arms. 
And  bound  me  with  her  yellow  hair. 

I  felt  those  red  lips  burn  and  sear 
My  body  like  a  living  coal ; 
Obeyed  the  power  of  those  eyes 
As  the  needle  trembles  to  the, pole; 
And  did  not  care  although  I  felt 
The  strength  go  ebbing  from  my  soul. 

Oh!  she  has  seen  your  strong  young  limbs, 
And  heard  your  laughter  loud  and  gay. 
And  in  your  voices  she  has  caught 
The  echo  of  a  far-off  day, 
When  man  was  closer  to  the  earth ; 
And  she  has  marked  you  for  her  prey. 

She  feels  the  old  Antaean  strength 
In  you,  the  great  dynamic  beat 
Of  primal  passions,  and  she  sees 
In  you  the  last  besieged  retreat 


82  James  Weldon  Johnson 

Of  love  relentless,  lusty,  fierce, 
Love  pain-ecstatic,  cruel-sweet. 

O,  brothers  mine,  take  care !    Take  care ! 
The  great  white  witch  rides  out  to-night. 
O,  younger  brothers  mine,  beware! 
Look  not  upon  her  beauty  bright  ; 
For  in  her  glance  there  is  a  snare, 
And  in  her  smile  there  is  a  blight. 


James  Weldon  Johnson  83 


MOTHER  NIGHT 

Eternities  before  the  first-born  day, 

Or  ere  the  first  sun  fledged  his  wings  of  flame, 
Calm  Night,  the  everlasting  and  the  same, 
A  brooding  mother  over  chaos  lay. 

And  whirling  suns  shall  blaze  and  then  decay. 
Shall  run  their  fiery  courses  and  then  claim 
The  haven  of  the  darkness  whence  they  came; 
Back  to  Nirvanic  peace  shall  grope  their  way. 

So  when  my  feeble  sun  of  life  burns  out. 
And  sounded  is  the  hour  for  my  long  sleep, 
I  shall,  full  weary  of  the  feverish  light, 

Welcome  the  darkness  without  fear  or  doubt, 
And  heavy-lidded,  I  shall  softly  creep 
Into  the  quiet  bosom  of  the  Night. 


84  James  Weldon  Johnson 


O  SOUTHLAND! 

O  Southland!     O  Southland! 

Have  you  not  heard  the  call, 
The  trumpet  blown,  the  word  made  known 

To  the  nations,  one  and  all  ? 
The  watchword,  the  hope-word, 

Salvation's  present  plan? 
A  gospel  new,  for  all — for  you : 

Man  shall  be  saved  by  man. 

O  Southland!     O  Southland! 

Do  you  not  hear  to-day 
The  mighty  beat  of  onward  feet. 

And  know  you  not  their  way  ? 
'Tis  forward,  'tis  upward. 

On  to  the  fair  white  arch 
Of  Freedom's  dome,  and  there  is  room 

For  each  man  who  would  march. 

O  Southland,  fair  Southland! 

Then  why  do  you  still  cling 
To  an  idle  age  and  a  musty  page, 

To  a  dead  and  useless  thing? 
*Tis  springtime!     'Tis  work-time! 

The  world  is  young  again! 
'And  God's  above,  and  God  is  love, 

And  men  are  only  men. 


James  Weldon  Johnson  85 

O  Southland!  my  Southland! 

O  birthland !  do  not  shirk 
The  toilsome  task,  nor  respite  ask, 

But  gird  you  for  the  work. 
Remember,  remember 

That  weakness  stalks  in  pride ; 
That  he  is  strong  who  helps  along 

The  faint  one  at  his  side. 


86  James  Weldon  Johnson 


BROTHERS 

See !    There  he  stands ;  not  brave,  but  with  an  air 

Of  sullen  stupor.     Mark  him  well!     Is  he 

Not  more  like  brute  than  man  ?    Look  in  his  eye ! 

No  light  is  there ;  none,  save  the  glint  that  shines 

In  the  now  glaring,  and  now  shifting  orbs 

Of  some  wild  animal  caught  in  the  hunter's  trap. 

How  came  this  beast  in  human  shape  and  form  ? 
Speak,  man ! — We  call  you  man  because  you  wear 
His  shape — How  are  you  thus?     Are  you  not  from 
That  docile,  child-like,  tender-hearted  race 
Which  we  have  known  three  centuries?    Not  from 
That  more  than  faithful  race  which  through  three  wars 
Fed  our  dear  wives  and  nursed  our  helpless  babes 
Without  a  single  breach  of  trust?    Speak  out! 

I  am,  and  am  not. 

Then  who,  why  are  you? 

I  am  a  thing  not  new,  I  am  as  old 
As  human  nature.    I  am  that  which  lurks, 
Ready  to  spring  whenever  a  bar  is  loosed ; 
The  ancient  trait  which  fights  incessantly 
Against  restraint,  balks  at  the  upward  climb; 
The  weight  forever  seeking  to  obey 


James  Weldon  Johnson  87 

The  law  of  downward  pull; — and  I  am  more: 

The  bitter  fruit  am  I  of  planted  seed ; 

The  resultant,  the  inevitable  end 

Of  evil  forces  and  the  powers  of  wrong. 

Lessons  in  degradation,  taught  and  learned, 
The  memories  of  cruel  sights  and  deeds, 
The  pent-up  bitterness,  the  unspent  hate 
Filtered  through  fifteen  generations  have 
Sprung  up  and  found  in  me  sporadic  life. 
In  me  the  muttered  curse  of  dying  men, 
On  me  the  stain  of  conquered  women,  and 
Consuming  me  the  fearful  fires  of  lust, 
Lit  long  ago,  by  other  hands  than  mine. 
In  me  the  down-crushed  spirit,  the  hurled-back  prayers 
Of  wretches  now  long  dead, — their  dire  bequests, — 
In  me  the  echo  of  the  stifled  cry 
Of  children  for  their  bartered  mothers'  breasts. 

I  claim  no  race,  no  race  claims  me;  I  am 
No  more  than  human  dregs ;  degenerate ; 
The  monstrous  offspring  of  the  monster.  Sin ; 
I  am — ^just  what  I  am.  .   .  .  The  race  that  fed 
Your  wives  and  nursed  your  babes  would  do  the  same 
To-day,  but  I — 

Enough,  the  brute  must  die! 
Quick!    Chain  him  to  that  oak!    It  will  resist 
The  fire  much  longer  than  this  slender  pine. 
Now  bring  the  fuel!    Pile  it  'round  him!    Wait! 
Pile  not  so  fast  or  high !  or  we  shall  lose 
The  agony  and  terror  in  his  face. 


88  James  Weldon  Johnson 

And  now  the  torch !    Good  fuel  that !  the  flames 
Already  leap  head-high.     Hal  hear  that  shriek! 
And  there's  another !    Wilder  than  the  first. 
Fetch  water !    Water !    Pour  a  little  on 
The  fire,  lest  it  should  burn  too  fast.    Hold  so! 
Now  let  it  slowly  blaze  again.     See  there! 
He  squirms!    He  groans!    His  eyes  bulge  wildly  out, 
Searching  around  in  vain  appeal  for  help! 
Another  shriek,  the  last !    Watch  how  the  flesh 
Grows  crisp  and  hangs  till,  turned  to  ash,  it  sifts 
Down  through  the  coils  of  chain  mat  hold  erect 
The  ghastly  frame  against  the  bark-scorched  tree. 

Stop !  to  each  man  no  more  than  one  man's  share. 
You  take  that  bone,  and  you  this  tooth ;  the  chain — 
Let  us  divide  its  links;  this  skull,  of  course, 
In  fair  division,  to  the  leader  comes. 

And  now  his  fiendish  crime  has  been  avenged ; 
Let  us  back  to  our  wives  and  children. — Say, 
What  did  he  mean  by  those  last  muttered  words, 
''Brothers  in  spirit,  brothers  in  deed  are  we**? 


James  Weldon  Johnson  89 

FIFTY  YEARS 

(1863-1913) 

On  the  Fiftieth  Anniversary  of  the  Signing  of  the 
Emancipation  Proclamation 

O  brothers  mine,  to-day  we  stand 

Where  half  a  century  sweeps  our  ken, 

Since  God,  through  Lincoln's  ready  hand, 
Struck  off  our  bonds  and  made  us  men. 

Just  fifty  years — a  winter's  day — 

As  runs  the  history  of  a  race; 
Yet,  as  we  look  back  o'er  the  way, 

How  distant  seems  our  starting  place! 

Look  farther  back!     Three  centuries! 

To  where  a  naked,  shivering  score. 
Snatched  from  their  haunts  across  the  seas, 

Stood,  wild-eyed,  on  Virginia's  shore. 

This  land  is  ours  by  right  of  birth. 

This  land  is  ours  by  right  of  toil ; 
We  helped  to  turn  its  virgin  earth. 

Our  sweat  is  in  its  fruitful  soil. 

Where  once  the  tangled  forest  stood, — 

Where  flourished  once  rank  weed  and  thorn, — 

Behold  the  path-traced,  peaceful  wood. 
The  cotton  white,  the  yellow  corn. 


90  James  Weldon  Johnson 

To  gain  these  fruits  that  have  been  earned, 
To  hold  these  fields  that  have  been  w^on, 

Our  arms  have  strained,  our  backs  have  burned. 
Bent  bare  beneath  a  ruthless  sun. 

That  Banner  vv^hich  is  now  the  type 

Of  victory  on  field  and  flood — 
Remember,  its  first  crimson  stripe 

Was  dyed  by  Attucks'  willing  blood. 

And  never  yet  has  come  the  cry — 

When  that  fair  flag  has  been  assailed — 

For  men  to  do,  for  men  to  die, 

That  we  have  faltered  or  have  failed. 

We've  helped  to  bear  it,  rent  and  torn, 

Through  many  a  hot-breath'd  battle  breeze 

Held  in  our  hands,  it  has  been  borne 
And  planted  far  across  the  seas. 

And  never  yet, — O  haughty  Land, 
Let  us,  at  least,  for  this  be  praised — 

Has  one  black,  treason-guided  hand 
Ever  against  that  flag  been  raised. 

Then  should  we  speak  but  servile  words, 
Or  shall  we  hang  our  heads  in  shame? 

Stand  back  of  new-come  foreign  hordes, 
And  fear  our  heritage  to  claim? 

No!  stand  erect  and  without  fear, 
And  for  our  foes  let  this  suffice — 

We've  bought  a  rightful  sonship  here. 
And  we  have  more  than  paid  the  price. 


James  Weldon  Johnson  91 

And  yet,  my  brothers,  well  I  know 

The  tethered  feet,  the  pinioned  wings, 

The  spirit  bowed  beneath  the  blow, 

The  heart  grown  faint  from  wounds  and  stings; 

The  staggering  force  of  brutish  might, 

That  strikes  and  leaves  us  stunned  and  dazed; 

The  long,  vain  waiting  through  the  night 
To  hear  some  voice  for  justice  raised. 

Full  well  I  know  the  hour  when  hope 
Sinks  dead,  and  'round  us  everywhere 

Hangs  stifling  darkness,  and  we  grope 
With  hands  uplifted  in  despair. 

Courage!     Look  out,  beyond,  and  see 

The  far  horizon's  beckoning  span! 
Faith  in  your  God-known  destiny! 

We  are  a  part  of  some  great  plan. 

Because  the  tongues  of  Garrison 

And  Phillips  now  are  cold  in  death. 
Think  you  their  work  can  be  undone  ? 

Or  quenched  the  fires  lit  by  their  breath? 

Think  you  that  John  Brown's  spirit  stops? 

That  Lovejoy  was  but  idly  slain? 
Or  do  you  think  those  precious  drops 

From  Lincoln's  heart  were  shed  in  vain  ? 

That  for  which  millions  prayed  and  sighed, 
That  for  which  tens  of  thousands  fought, 

For  which  so  many  freely  died, 
God  cannot  let  it  come  to  naught. 


John  Wesley  Holloway 

MISS  MELERLEE 

Hello  dar,  Miss  Melerlee! 
Oh,  you're  pretty  sight  to  see ! 
Sof  brown  cheek,  an'  smilin'  face, 
An'  willowy  form  chuck  full  o'  grace — 
De  sweetes'  gal  Ah  evah  see, 
An'  Ah  wush  dat  you  would  marry  me! 

Hello,  Miss  Melerlee! 

Hello  dar.  Miss  Melerlee ! 
You're  de  berry  gal  fo'  me ! 
Pearly  teef,  an'  shinin'  hair, 
An'  silky  arm  so  plump  an'  bare! 
Ah  lak  yo'  walk.  Ah  lak  yo'  clothes. 
An'  de  way  Ah  love  you, — goodness  knows! 

Hello,  Miss  Melerlee! 

Hello  dar.  Miss  Melerlee ! 
Dat's  not  yo'  name,  but  it  ought  to  be! 
Ah  nevah  seed  yo'  face  befo' 
An'  lakly  won't  again  no  mo' ; 
But  yo'  sweet  smile  will  follow  me 
Cla'r  into  eternity! 

Farewell,  Miss  Melerlee! 
93 


94  John  Wesley  Hollo  way 


CALLING  THE  DOCTOR 

Ah'm  sick,  doctor-man,  Ah'm  sick! 
Gi'  me  some'n'  to  he'p  me  quick, 
Don't,— Ah'U  die! 

Tried  mighty  hard  fo*  to  cure  mahse'f ; 
Tried  all  dem  t'ings  on  de  pantry  she'f ; 
Couldn'  fin'  not'in'  a-tall  would  do, 
An'  so  Ah  sent  fo'  you. 

"Wha'd  Ah  take?"    Well,  le»  me  see: 

Firs', — horhound  drops  an*  catnip  tea; 

Den  rock  candy  soaked  in  rum, 

An'  a  good  sized  chunk  o'  camphor  gum ; 

Next  Ah  tried  was  castor  oil. 

An*  snakeroot  tea  brought  to  a  boil ; 

Sassafras  tea  fo'  to  clean  mah  blood ; 

But  none  o'  dem  t'ings  didn*  do  no  good. 

Den  when  home  remedies  seem  to  shirk, 

Dem  pantry  bottles  was  put  to  work: 

Blue-mass,  laud'num,  liver  pills, 
"Sixty-six,  fo*  fever  an'  chills," 
Ready  Relief,  an*  A.  B.  C, 
An'  half  a  bottle  of  X.  Y.  Z. 
An*  sev*al  mo*  Ah  don't  recall, 
Dey  nevah  done  no  good  at  all. 


John  Wesley  Holloway  95 

Mah  appetite  begun  to  fail; 
!Ah  fo'ced  some  clabber,  about  a  pail, 
Fo'  mah  ol'  gran'ma  always  said 
When  yo'  can't  eat  you're  almost  dead. 

So  Ah  got  scared  an'  sent  for  you. — 
Now,  doctor,  see  what  you  c'n  do. 
Ah'm  sick,  doctor-man.    Gawd  knows  Ah'm  sick! 
Gi'  me  some'n'  to  he'p  me  quick, 
Don't,— Ah'll  die! 


g6  John  Wesley  Holloway 


THE  CX)RN  SONG 

Jes'  beyan  a  clump  o'  pines, — 

Lis'n  to  'im  now! — 
Hyah  de  jolly  black  boy, 

Singin',  at  his  plow! 
In  de  early  momin', 

Thoo  de  hazy  air, 
Loud  an'  clear,  sweet  an'  strong 

Comes  de  music  rare: 

"O  mah  dovee,  Who-ah! 
Do  you  love  me  ?    Who-ah ! 

Who-ah!" 
An'  as  'e  tu'ns  de  cotton  row, 
Hyah  'im  tell  'is  ol'  mule  so ; 
"Whoa!    Har!    Come 'ere!" 

Don't  yo'  love  a  co'n  song? 

How  it  stirs  yo'  blood ! 
Ever'body  list'nin'. 

In  de  neighborhood! 
Standin'  in  yo'  front  do* 

In  de  misty  mo'n, 
Hyah  de  jolly  black  boy, 

Singin'  in  de  co'n : 

"O  Miss  Julie,  Who-ah! 

Love  me  truly,  Who-ah! 

Who-ah!" 


John  Wesley  Holloway  97 

Hyah  'im  scol'  'is  mule  so, 
Wen  'e  try  to  mek  'Im  go : 
"Gee!    Whoa!    Come 'ere!'* 

O  you  jolly  black  boy, 

Yod'lin'  in  de  co'n, 
Callin'  to  yo'  dawlin', 

In  de  dewy  mo'n, 
Love  'er,  boy,  forevah, 

Yodel  ever'  day; 
Only  le'  me  lis'n. 

As  yo'  sing  away: 

"Omah  dawlin'!    Who-ah! 
Hyah  me  callin'!    Who-ah! 

Who-ah!" 
Tu'n  aroun'  anothah  row, 
Holler  to  yo'  mule  so: 

"Whoa!    Har!    Come  'ere!" 


98  John  Wesley  Hollow  ay 


BLACK  MAMMIES 

If  Ah  evah  git  to  glory,  an'  Ah  hope  to  mek  it  thoo, 
Ah  expec*  to  hyah  a  story,  an'  Ah  hope  you'll  hyah  it, 

too, — 
Hit'll    kiver    Maine    to    Texas,    an*    f'om    Bosting    to 

Miami, — 
Ov  de  highes'  shaf  in  glory,  'rected  to  de  Negro  Mammy. 

You  will  see  a  lot  o*  Washington,  an'  Washington  again  ; 
An'  good  ol'  Fathah  Lincoln,  tow'rin'  'hove  de  rest  o' 

men; 
But  dar'll  be  a  bunch  o'  women  standin'  hard  up  by  de 

th'one, 
An'  dey'U  all  be  black  an'  homely, — 'less  de  Virgin  Mary's 

one. 

Dey  will  be  de  talk  of  angels,  dey  will  be  de  praise  o*  men. 
An'  de  whi'  folks  would  go  crazy  'thout  their  Mammy 

folks  again: 
If  it's  r'ally  true  dat  meekness  makes  you  heir  to  all  de 

eart'. 
Den  our  blessed,  good  ol'  Mammies  must  'a'  been  of  noble 

birt'. 

If  de  greates'  is  de  servant,  den  Ah  got  to  say  o'  dem, 
Dey'll  be  standin'  nex'  to  Jesus,  sub  to  no  one  else  but 

Him; 
If  de  crown  goes  to  de  fait'ful,  an*  de  palm  de  victors 

wear, 
Dey'll  be  loaded  down  wid  jewels  more  dan  anybody  dere. 


John  Wesley  Hollo  way  99 

She'd  de  hardes'  road  to  trabel  evah  mortal  had  to  pull; 
But  she  knelt  down  in  huh  cabin  till  huh  cup  0'  joy  was 

full; 
Dough'  oV  Satan  tried  to  shake  huh  f'om  huh  knees  wid 

scowl  an'  frown, 
She  jes'  "dumb  up  Jacob's  ladder,"  an'  he  nevah  drug 

huh  down. 

She'd  jes'  croon  above  de  babies,  she'd  jes'  sing  when  t'ings 

went  wrong, 
An'  no  matter  what  de  trouble,  she  would  meet  it  wid  a 

song; 
She  jes'  prayed  huh  way  to  heaben,  findin'  comfort  in  de 

rod; 
She  jes'  "stole  away  to  Jesus,"  she  jes'  sung  huh  way  to 

God! 

She  "kep'  lookin'  ovah  Jurdan,"  kep'  "a-trustin*  in  de 

word," 
Kep'   a-lookin'   fo   "de  char'et,"   kep'   "a-waitin'   fo'   de 

Lawd," 
If  she  evah  had  to  quavah  of  de  shadder  of  a  doubt. 
It  ain't  nevah  been  discovahed,  fo'  she  nevah  sung  it  out; 

But  she  trusted  in  de  shadder,  an'  she  trusted  in  de  shine. 
An'   she  longed   fo'  one  possession:   "dat  heaben   to  be 

mine" ; 
An'  she  prayed  huh  chil'en  freedom,  but  she  won  huhse'f 

de  bes', — 
Peace  on  eart'  amids'  huh  sorrows,  an'  up  yonder  heabenly 

res'! 


Leslie  Pinckney  Hill 

TUSKEGEE 

Wherefore  this  busy  labor  without  rest  ? 

Is  it  an  idle  dream  to  which  we  cling, 

Here  where  a  thousand  dusky  toilers  sing 

Unto  the  world  their  hope  ?    "Build  we  our  best. 

By  hand  and  thought,"  they  cry,  "although  unblessed." 

So  the  great  engines  throb,  and  anvils  ring. 

And  so  the  thought  is  wedded  to  the  thing ; 

But  what  shall  be  the  end,  and  what  the  test? 

Dear  God,  we  dare  not  answer,  we  can  see 

Not  many  steps  ahead,  but  this  we  know — 

If  all  our  toilsome  building  is  in  vain, 

Availing  not  to  set  our  manhood  free. 

If  envious  hate  roots  out  the  seed  we  sow, 

The  South  will  wear  eternally  a  stain. 


102  Leslie  Pinckney  Hill 


CHRISTMAS  AT  MELROSE 

Come  home  with  me  a  little  space 

And  browse  about  our  ancient  place, 

Lay  by  your  wonted  troubles  here 

And  have  a  turn  of  Christmas  cheer. 

These  sober  walls  of  weathered  stone 

Can  tell  a  romance  of  their  own, 

And  these  wide  rooms  of  devious  line 

Are  kindly  meant  in  their  design. 

Sometimes  the  north  wind  searches  through, 

But  he  shall  not  be  rude  to  you. 

We'll  light  a  log  of  generous  girth 

For  winter  comfort,  and  the  mirth 

Of  healthy  children  you  shall  see 

About  a  sparkling  Christmas  tree. 

Eleanor,  leader  of  the  fold, 

Hermione  with  heart  of  gold, 

Elaine  with  comprehending  eyes, 

And  two  more  yet  of  coddling  size, 

Natalie  pondering  all  that's  said. 

And  Mary  with  the  cherub  head — 

All  these  shall  give  you  sweet  content 

And  care-destroying  merriment, 

While  one  with  true  madonna  grace 

Moves  round  the  glowing  fire-place 

Where  father  loves  to  muse  aside 

And  grandma  sits  in  silent  pride. 

And  you  may  chafe  the  wasting  oak, 

Or  freely  pass  the  kindly  joke 


Leslie  Pinckney  Hill  103 

To  mix  with  nuts  and  home-made  cake 
And  apples  set  on  coals  to  bake. 
Or  some  fine  carol  we  will  sing 
In  honor  of  the  Manger-King, 
Or  hear  great  Milton's  organ  verse 
Or  Plato's  dialogue  rehearse 
What  Socrates  with  his  last  breath 
Sublimely  said  of  life  and  death. 
These  dear  delights  we  fain  would  share 
With  friend  and  kinsman  everywhere, 
And  from  our  door  see  them  depart 
Each  with  a  little  lighter  heart. 


I04  Leslie  Pinckney  Hill 


SUMMER  MAGIC 

So  many  cares  to  vex  the  day, 

So  many  fears  to  haunt  the  night, 
My  heart  was  all  but  weaned  away 

From  every  lure  of  old  delight. 
Then  summer  came,  announced  by  June, 

With  beauty,  miracle  and  mirth. 
She  hung  aloft  the  rounding  moon, 

She  poured  her  sunshine  on  the  earth, 
She  drove  the  sap  and  broke  the  bud, 

She  set  the  crimson  rose  afire. 
She  stirred  again  my  sullen  blood, 

And  waked  in  me  a  new  desire. 
Before  my  cottage  door  she  spread 

The  softest  carpet  nature  weaves, 
And  deftly  arched  above  my  head 

A  canopy  of  shady  leaves. 
Her  nights  were  dreams  of  jeweled  skies, 

Her  days  were  bowers  rife  with  song. 
And  many  a  scheme  did  she  devise 

To  heal  the  hurt  and  soothe  the  wrong. 
For  on  the  hill  or  in  the  dell. 

Or  where  the  brook  went  leaping  by 
Or  where  the  fields  would  surge  and  swell 

With  golden  wheat  or  bearded  rye, 
I  felt  her  heart  against  my  own, 

I  breathed  the  sweetness  of  her  breath. 
Till  all  the  cark  of  time  had  flown. 

And  I  was  lord  of  life  and  death. 


Leslie  Pinckney  Hill  105 


THE  TEACHER 

Lord,  who  am  I  to  teach  the  way 
To  little  children  day  by  day, 
So  prone  myself  to  go  astray? 

I  teach  them  Knowledge,  but  I  know 
How  faint  they  flicker  and  how  low 
The  candles  of  my  knowledge  glow. 

I  teach  them  Power  to  will  and  do. 

But  only  now  to  learn  anew 

My  own  great  weakness  through  and  through. 

I  teach  them  Love  for  all  mankind 
And  all  God's  creatures,  but  I  find 
My  love  comes  lagging  far  behind. 

Lord,  if  their  guide  I  still  must  be, 

Oh  let  the  little  children  see 

The  teacher  leaning  hard  on  Thee. 


Edward  Smyth  Jones 

A  SONG  OF  THANKS 

For  the  sun  that  shone  at  the  dawn  of  spring, 

For  the  flowers  which  bloom  and  the  birds  that  sing, 

For  the  verdant  robe  of  the  gray  old  earth, 

For  her  coffers  filled  with  their  countless  worth, 

For  the  flocks  which  feed  on  a  thousand  hills, 

For  the  rippling  streams  which  turn  the  mills, 

For  the  lowing  herds  in  the  lovely  vale, 

For  the  songs  of  gladness  on  the  gale, — 

From  the  Gulf  and  the  Lakes  to  the  Oceans'  banks, — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  we  give  Thee  thanks! 

For  the  farmer  reaping  his  whitened  fields, 
For  the  bounty  which  the  rich  soil  yields. 
For  the  cooling  dews  and  refreshing  rains, 
For  the  sun  which  ripens  the  golden  grains. 
For  the  bearded  wheat  and  the  fattened  swine, 
For  the  stalled  ox  and  the  fruitful  vine. 
For  the  tubers  large  and  cotton  white, 
For  the  kid  and  the  lambkin  frisk  and  blithe. 
For  the  swan  which  floats  near  the  river-banks,— 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  we  give  Thee  thanks! 

For  the  pumpkin  sweet  and  the  yellow  yam. 
For  the  corn  and  beans  and  the  sugared  ham, 
107 


lo8  Edward  Smyth  Jones 

For  the  plum  and  the  peach  and  the  apple  red, 
For  the  dear  old  press  where  the  wine  is  tread, 
For  the  cock  which  crows  at  the  breaking  dawn, 
And  the  proud  old  "turk"  of  the  farmer's  barn, 
For  the  fish  which  swim  in  the  babbling  brooks, 
For  the  game  which  hide  in  the  shady  nooks, — 
From  the  Gulf  and  the  Lakes  to  the  Oceans'  banks — 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  we  give  Thee  thanks! 

For  the  sturdy  oaks  and  the  stately  pines. 

For  the  lead  and  the  coal  from  the  deep,  dark  mines, 

For  the  silver  ores  of  a  thousand  fold, 

For  the  diamond  bright  and  the  yellow  gold, 

For  the  river  boat  and  the  flying  train. 

For  the  fleecy  sail  of  the  rolling  main. 

For  the  velvet  sponge  and  the  glossy  pearl. 

For  the  flag  of  peace  which  we  now  unfurl, — 

From  the  Gulf  and  the  Lakes  to  the  Oceans'  banks, — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  we  give  Thee  thanks! 

For  the  lowly  cot  and  the  mansion  fair, 

For  the  peace  and  plenty  together  share, 

For  the  Hand  which  guides  us  from  above, 

For  Thy  tender  mercies,  abiding  love. 

For  the  blessed  home  with  its  children  gay. 

For  returnings  of  Thanksgiving  Day, 

For  the  bearing  toils  and  the  sharing  cares. 

We  lift  up  our  hearts  in  our  songs  and  our  prayers, — 

From  the  Gulf  and  the  Lakes  to  the  Oceans'  banks, — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  we  give  Thee  thanks! 


Ray  G.  Dandridge 

TIME  TO  DIE 

Black  brother,  think  you  life  so  sweet 

That  you  would  live  at  any  price? 

Does  mere  existence  balance  with 

The  weight  of  your  great  sacrifice? 

Or  can  it  be  you  fear  the  grave 

Enough  to  live  and  die  a  slave? 

O  Brother !  be  it  better  said, 

When  you  are  gone  and  tears  are  shed, 

That  your  death  was  the  stepping  stone 

Your  children's  children  cross'd  upon. 

Men  have  died  that  men  might  live : 

Look  every  foeman  in  the  eye! 

If  necessary,  your  life  give 

For  something,  ere  in  vain  you  die. 


109 


no  Ray  G.  Dandridge 

'ITTLE  TOUZLE  HEAD 

(ToR.V.P.) 

Cum,  listen  w'ile  yore  Unkel  sings 
Erbout  how  low  sweet  chariot  swings, 
Truint  Angel,  wifout  wings, 
Mah  'ittle  Touzle  Head. 

Stop !    Stop !    How  dare  you  laff  et  me, 
Bekaze  I  foul  de  time  an'  key, 
Thinks  you  dat  I  is  Black  Pattie, 
Mah  'ittle  Touzle  Head? 

O,  Honey  Lam'!  dem  sparklin'  eyes, 
Dat  offen  laffs  an'  selem  cries, 
Is  sho  a  God  gib  natchel  prize, 
Mah  'ittle  Touzle  Head. 

An'  doze  wee  ban's  so  sof*  an'  sweet. 
Mates  wid  dem  toddlin',  velvet  feet, 
Jes  to  roun'  you  out,  complete, 
Mah  'ittle  Touzle  Head. 

Sma't !  youse  sma't  ez  sma*t  kin  be, 
Knows  yore  evah  A,  B,  C, 
Plum  on  down  to  X,  Y,  Z, 
Mah  'ittle  Touzle  Head. 


Ray  G.  Dandridge  ill 

De  man  doan  know  how  much  he  miss, 
Ef  he  ain't  got  no  niece  lak  dis; 
Fro  yore  Unkel  one  mo'  kiss, 
Mah  'ittle  Touzle  Head! 


I  wist  sum  magic  w'u'd  ellow, 
(By  charm  or  craf — doan  mattah  how) 
You  stay  jes  lak  you  is  right  now, 
Mah  'ittle  Touzle  Head. 


112  Ray  G.  Dandridge 

ZALKA  PEETRUZA 

{Who  Was  Christened  Lucy  Jane) 

She  danced,  near  nude,  to  tom-tom  beat, 
With  swaying  arms  and  flying  feet, 
*Mid  swirling  spangles,  gauze  and  lace. 
Her  all  was  dancing — save  her  face. 

A  conscience,  dumb  to  brooding  fears, 
Companioned  hearing  deaf  to  cheers; 
A  body,  marshalled  by  the  will. 
Kept  dancing  while  a  heart  stood  still: 

And  eyes  obsessed  with  vacant  stare, 
Looked  over  heads  to  empty  air, 
As  though  they  sought  to  find  therein 
Redemption  for  a  maiden  sin. 

*Twas  thus,  amid  force  driven  grace, 
We  found  the  lost  look  on  her  face; 
And  then,  to  us,  did  it  occur 
That,  though  we  saw — ^we  saw  not  her. 


Ray  G.  Dandridge  113 


SPRIN'  FEVAH 

Dar's  a  lazy,  sortah  hazy 

Feelin'  grips  me,  thoo  an'  thoo; 

An'  I  feels  lak  doin'  less  dan  enythin*; 

Dough  de  saw  is  sharp  an'  greasy, 

Dough  de  task  et  han'  is  easy, 

An'  de  day  am  fair  an'  breezy, 

Dar's  a  thief  dat  steals  embition  in  de  win*. 

Kaint  defy  it,  kaint  deny  it, 

Kaze  it  jes  won't  be  denied; 

Its  a  mos'  pursistin'  stubbern  sortah  thin*; 

Anti  Tox'  doan  neutrolize  it; 

Doctahs  fail  to  analyze  it; 

So  I  yiel's  (dough  I  despise  it) 

To  dat  res'less,  wretchit  fevah  evah  Sprin*. 


114  ^^y  ^'  Dandridge 


DE  DRUM  MAJAH 

He*s  stnittin'  sho  ernuff, 
Wearin*  a  lady's  muff 
En*  ways  erpon  his  head, 
Red  coat  ob  reddest  red, 
Purtty  white  satin  ves*, 
Gole  braid  ercross  de  ches'; 
Goo'ness!  he  cuts  a  stunt, 
Prancin*  out  dar  in  frunt, 
Leadin'  his  ban*. 

Wen  dat  ah  whistle  blows, 
Each  man  behine  him  knows 
*Zacklee  whut  he  mus'  do; 
You  bet!  he  dues  it,  too. 
Wen  dat  brass  stick  he  twirls, 
Ole  maids  an'  lub-sick  gurls 
Ix)oks  on  wid  longin'  eyes, 
Dey  simpley  idolize 
Dat  han'sum  man. 

Sweet  fife  an'  piccalo, 
Bofe  warblin'  sof  an'  lo*, 
Slide  ho'n  an'  saxophones. 
Jazz  syncopated  tones, 
Snare  drum  an'  lead  cornet, 
Alto  an'  clarinet, 
Las*,  but  not  least,  dar  cum 
Cymbals  an'  big  bass  drum — 
0 1  whut  a  ban* ! 


Ray  G.  Dandridge  !II5 

Cose,  we  all  undahstan* 
Each  piece  he'ps  maik  de  ban*, 
But  dey  all  mus*  be  led, 
Sum  one  mus'  be  de  head: 
No  doubt,  de  centipede 
Has  all  de  laigs  he  need, 
But  take  erway  de  head, 
Po'  centipede  am  dead; 
So  am  de  ban\ 


Fenton  Johnson 

CHILDREN  OF  THE  SUN 

We  are  children  of  the  sun, 

Rising  sun! 
Weaving  Southern  destiny, 
Waiting  for  the  mighty  hour 
When  our  Shiloh  shall  appear 
With  the  flaming  sword  of  right, 
With  the  steel  of  brotherhood, 
And  emboss  in  crimson  die 
Liberty !    Fraternity ! 

We  are  the  star-dust  folk. 

Striving  folk! 
Sorrow  songs  have  lulled  to  rest; 
Seething  passions  wrought  through  wrongs, 
Led  us  where  the  moon  rays  dip 
In  the  night  of  dull  despair, 
Showed  us  where  the  star  gleams  shine, 
And  the  mystic  symbols  glow — 
Liberty !     Fraternity  I 

We  have  come  through  cloud  and  mist, 

Mighty  men ! 
Dusk  has  kissed  our  sleep-bom  eyes, 
117 


Ii8  Fenton  Johnson 

Reared  for  us  a  mystic  throne 
In  the  splendor  of  the  skies, 
That  shall  always  be  for  us, 
Children  of  the  Nazarene, 
Children  who  shall  ever  sing 
Liberty !    Fraternity ! 


Fenton  Johnson  119 

THE  NEW  DAY 
From  a  vision  red  with  war  I  awoke  and  saw  the  Prince 

of  Peace  hovering  over  No  Man's  Land. 
Loud  the  whistles  blew  and  the  thunder  of  cannon  was 

drowned  by  the  happy  shouting  of  the  people. 
From  the  Sinai  that  faces  Armageddon  I  heard  this  chant 

from  the  throats  of  white-robed  angels: 

Blow  your  trumpets,  little  children! 

From  the  East  and  from  the  West, 

From  the  cities  in  the  valley, 

From  God's  dwelling  on  the  mountain, 

Blow  your  blast  that  Peace  might  know 

She  is  Queen  of  God's  great  army. 

With  the  crying  blood  of  millions 

We  have  written  deep  her  name 

In  the  Book  of  all  the  Ages; 

With  the  lilies  in  the  valley, 

With  the  roses  by  the  Mersey, 

With  the  golden  flower  of  Jersey 

We  have  crowned  her  smooth  young  temples. 

Where  her  footsteps  cease  to  falter 

Golden  grain  will  greet  the  morning, 

Where  her  chariot  descends 

Shall  be  broken  down  the  altars 

Of  the  gods  of  dark  disturbance. 

Nevermore  shall  men  know  suffering, 

Nevermore  shall  women  wailing 

Shake  to  grief  the  God  of  Heaven. 

From  the  East  and  from  the  West, 

From  the  cities  in  the  valley, 


I20  Fenton  Johnson 

From  God's  dwelling  on  the  mountain, 
Little  children,  blow  your  trumpets ! ' 

From  Ethiopia,  groaning  'neath  her  heavy  burdens,  I 
heard  the  music  of  the  old  slave  songs. 

I  heard  the  wail  of  warriors,  dusk  brown,  who  grimly 
fought  the  fight  of  others  in  the  trenches  of  Mars. 

I  heard  the  plea  of  blood-stained  men  of  dusk  and  the 
crimson  in  my  veins  leapt  furiously. 

Forget  not,  O  my  brothers,  how  we  fought 

In  No  Man's  Land  that  peace  might  come  again! 

Forget  not,  O  my  brothers,  how  we  gave 

Red  blood  to  save  the  freedom  of  the  world! 

We  were  not  free,  our  tawny  hands  were  tied ; 

But  Belgium's  plight  and  Serbia's  woes  we  shared 

Each  rise  of  sun  or  setting  of  the  moon. 

So  when  the  bugle  blast  had  called  us  forth 

We  went  not  like  the  surly  brute  of  yore 

But,  as  the  Spartan,  proud  to  give  the  world 

The  freedom  that  we  never  knew  nor  shared. 

These  chains,  O  brothers  mine,  have  weighed  us  down 

As  Samson  in  the  temple  of  the  gods; 

Unloosen  them  and  let  us  breathe  the  air 

That  makes  the  goldenrod  the  flower  of  Christ. 

For  we  have  been  with  thee  in  No  Man's  Land, 

Through  lake  of  fire  and  down  to  Hell  itself ; 

And  now  we  ask  of  thee  our  liberty. 

Our  freedom  in  the  land  of  Stars  and  Stripes. 

I  am  glad  that  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  hovering  over  No 
Man's  Land. 


Fenton  Johnson  I2li 


TIRED 

I  am  tired  of  work;  I  am  tired  of  building  up  somebody 

else's  civilization. 
Let  us  take  a  rest,  M'Lissy  Jane. 
I  will  go  down  to  the  Last  Chance  Saloon,  drink  a  gallon 

or  two  of  gin,  shoot  a  game  or  two  of  dice  and 

sleep  the  rest  of  the  night  on  one  of  Mike's  barrels. 
You  will  let  the  old  shanty  go  to  rot,  the  white  people's 

clothes  turn  to  dust,  and  the  Calvary  Baptist  Church 

sink  to  the  bottomless  pit. 
You  will  spend  your  days  forgetting  you  married  me  and 

your  nights  hunting  the  warm  gin  Mike  serves  the 

ladies  in  the  rear  of  the  Last  Chance  Saloon. 
Throw  the  children  into  the  river;  civilization  has  given 

us  too  many.     It  is  better  to  die  than  it  is  to  grow 

up  and  find  out  that  you  are  colored. 
Pluck  the  stars  out  of  the  heavens.    The  stars  mark  our 

destiny.    The  stars  marked  my  destiny. 
I  am  tired  of  civilization. 


122  Fenton  Johnson 


THE  BANJO  PLAYER 

There  is  music  in  me,  the  music  of  a  peasant  people. 

I  wander  through  the  levee,  picking  my  banjo  and  sing- 
ing my  songs  of  the  cabin  and  the  field.  At  the 
Last  Chance  Saloon  I  am  as  welcome  as  the  violets 
in  March;  there  is  always  food  and  drink  for  me 
there,  and  the  dimes  of  those  who  love  honest  music. 
Behind  the  railroad  tracks  the  little  children  clap 
their  hands  and  love  me  as  they  love  Kris  Kringle. 

But  I  fear  that  I  am  a  failure.  Last  night  a  woman 
called  me  a  troubadour.    What  is  a  troubadour? 


Fenton  Johnson  123 


THE  SCARLET  WOMAN 

Once  I  was  good  like  the  Virgin  Mary  and  the  Minis- 
ter's wife. 

My  father  worked  for  Mr.  Pullman  and  white  people's 
tips;  but  he  died  two  days  after  his  insurance  ex- 
pired. 

I  had  nothing,  so  I  had  to  go  to  work. 

All  the  stock  I  had  was  a  white  girl's  education  and  a 
face  that  enchanted  the  men  of  both  races. 

Starvation  danced  with  me. 

So  when  Big  Lizzie,  who  kept  a  house  for  white  men, 
came  to  me  with  tales  of  fortune  that  I  could  reap 
from  the  sale  of  my  virtue  I  bowed  my  head  to  Vice. 

Now  I  can  drink  more  gin  than  any  man  for  miles 
around. 

Gin  is  better  than  all  the  water  in  Lethe. 


R.  Nathaniel  Dett 

THE  RUBINSTEIN  STACCATO  ETUDE 

S  taccato !     Staccato ! 
Leggier  agitato! 

In  and  out  does  the  melody  twist — 
Unique  proposition 
Is  this  composition. 

(Alas!  for  the  player  who  hasn't  the  wrist!) 
Now  in  the  dominant 
Theme  ringing  prominent, 

Bass  still  repeating  its  one  monotone, 
Double  notes  crying. 
Up  keyboard  go  flying, 

The  change  to  the  minor  comes  in  like  a  groan. 
Without  a  cessation 
A  chaste  modulation 

Hastens  adown  to  subdominant  key, 
Where  melody  mellow-like 
Singing  so  'cello-like 

Rises  and  falls  in  a  wild  ecstasy. 
Scarce  is  this  finished 
When  chords  all  diminished 

Break  loose  in  a  patter  that  comes  down  like  rain, 
A  pedal-point  wonder 
Rivaling  thunder. 

Now  all  is  mad  agitation  again. 
125 


126  R.  Nathaniel  Dett 

Like  laughter  jolly 
Begins  the  finale; 

Again  does  the  *cello  its  tones  seem  to  lend 
Diminuendo  ad  molto  crescendo. 

Ah !    Rubinstein  only  could  make  such  an  end ! 


Georgia  Douglas  Johnson 

THE  HEART  OF  A  WOMAN 

The  heart  of  a  woman  goes  forth  with  the  dawn, 
As  a  lone  bird,  soft  winging,  so  restlessly  on, 
Afar  o'er  life's  turrets  and  vales  does  it  roam 
In  the  wake  of  those  echoes  the  heart  calls  home. 

The  heart  of  a  woman  falls  back  with  the  night. 
And  enters  some  alien  cage  in  its  plight, 
And  tries  to  forget  it  has  dreamed  of  the  stars 
While  it  breaks,  breaks,  breaks  on  the  sheltering  bars. 


127 


128  Georgia  Douglas  Johnson 


YOUTH 

The  dew  is  on  the  grasses,  dear, 

The  blush  is  on  the  rose, 
And  swift  across  our  dial-youth, 

A  shifting  shadow  goes. 

The  primrose  moments,  lush  with  bliss, 

Exhale  and  fade  away. 
Life  may  renew  the  Autumn  time, 

But  nevermore  the  May ! 


Georgia  Douglas  Johnson  129 


LOST  ILLUSIONS 

Oh,  for  the  veils  of  my  far  away  youth, 
Shielding  my  heart  from  the  blaze  of  the  truth, 
Why  did  I  stray  from  their  shelter  and  grow 
Into  the  sadness  that  follows — to  know! 

Impotent  atom  with  desolate  gaze 
Threading  the  tumult  of  hazardous  ways — 
Oh,  for  the  veils,  for  the  veils  of  my  youth 
Veils  that  hung  low  o'er  the  blaze  of  the  truth! 


130  Georgia  Douglas  Johnson 


I  WANT  TO  DIE  WHILE  YOU  LOVE  ME 

I  want  to  die  while  you  love  me, 
While  yet  you  hold  me  fair, 

While  laughter  lies  upon  my  lips 
And  lights  are  in  my  hair. 

I  want  to  die  while  you  love  me, 

And  bear  to  that  still  bed, 
Your  kisses  turbulent,  unspent 

To  warm  me  when  I'm  dead. 

I  want  to  die  while  you  love  me 
Oh,  who  would  care  to  live 

Till  love  has  nothing  more  to  ask 
And  nothing  more  to  give! 

I  want  to  die  while  you  love  me 

And  never,  never  see 
The  glory  of  this  perfect  day 

Grow  dim  or  cease  to  be. 


Georgia  Douglas  Johnson  I131 


WELT 

Would  I  might  mend  the  fabric  of  my  youth 
That  daily  flaunts  its  tatters  to  my  eyes, 
Would  I  might  compromise  awhile  with  truth 
Until  our  moon  now  waxing,  wanes  and  dies. 

For  I  would  go  a  further  while  with  you, 
And  drain  this  cup  so  tantalant  and  fair 
Which  meets  my  parched  lips  like  cooling  dew. 
Ere  time  has  brushed  cold  fingers  thru  my  hair! 


132  Georgia  Douglas  Johnson 


MY  LITTLE  DREAMS 

I'm  folding  up  my  little  dreams 
Within  my  heart  to-night, 
And  praying  I  may  soon  forget 
The  torture  of  their  sight. 

For  Time's  deft  fingers  scroll  my  brow. 
With  fell  relentless  art — 
I'm  folding  up  my  little  dreams 
To-night,  within  my  heart! 


Claude  McKay 

THE  LYNCHING 

His  spirit  in  smoke  ascended  to  high  heaven. 

His  father,  by  the  crudest  way  of  pain, 

Had  bidden  him  to  his  bosom  once  again ; 

The  awful  sin  remained  still  unforgiven. 

All  night  a  bright  and  solitary  star 

( Perchance  the  one  that  ever  guided  him, 

Yet  gave  him  up  at  last  to  Fate's  wild  whim) 

Hung  pitifully  o'er  the  swinging  char. 

Day  dawned,  and  soon  the  mixed  crowds  came  to  view 

The  ghastly  body  swaying  in  the  sun: 

The  women  thronged  to  look,  but  never  a  one 

Showed  sorrow  in  her  eyes  of  steely  blue; 

And  little  lads,  lynchers  that  were  to  be. 

Danced  round  the  dreadful  thing  in  fiendish  glee. 


133 


134  Claude  McKay 


IF  WE  MUST  DIE 

If  we  must  die — let  it  not  be, like  hogs 
Hunted  and  penned  in  an  inglorious  spot, 
While  round  us  bark  the  mad  and  hungry  dogs, 
Making  their  mock  at  our  accursed  lot. 
If  we  must  die — oh,  let  us  nobly  die, 
So  that  our  precious  blood  may  not  be  shed 
In  vain;  then  even  the  monsters  we  defy 
Shall  be  constrained  to  honor  us  though  dead! 

Oh,  Kinsmen!    We  must  meet  the  common  foe; 
Though  far  outnumbered,  let  us  still  be  brave, 
And  for  their  thousand  blows  deal  one  death-blow! 
What  though  before  us  lies  the  open  grave  ? 
Like  men  we'll  face  the  murderous,  cowardly  pack, 
Pressed  to  the  wall,  dying,  but — fighting  back! 


Claude  McKay  135 


TO  THE  WHITE  FIENDS 

Think  you  I  am  not  fiend  and  savage  too? 

Think  you  I  could  not  arm  me  with  a  gun 

And  shoot  down  ten  of  you  for  every  one 

Of  my  black  brothers  murdered,  burnt  by  you? 

Be  not  deceived,  for  every  deed  you  do 

I  could  match — out-match :  am  I  not  Africa's  son. 

Black  of  that  black  land  where  black  deeds  are  done? 

But  the  Almighty  from  the  darkness  drew 
My  soul  and  said :  Even  thou  shalt  be  a  light 
Awhile  to  burn  on  the  benighted  earth, 
Thy  dusky  face  I  set  among  the  white 
For  thee  to  prove  thyself  of  highest  worth; 
Before  the  world  is  swallowed  up  in  night, 
To  show  thy  little  lamp:  go  forth,  go  forth! 


136  Claude  McKay 


THE  HARLEM  DANCER 

Applauding  youths  laughed  with  young  prostitutes 
And  watched  her  perfect,  half-clothed  body  sway; 
Her  voice  was  like  the  sound  of  blended  flutes 
Blown  by  black  players  upon  a  picnic  day. 
She  sang  and  danced  on  gracefully  and  calm, 
The  light  gauze  hanging  loose  about  her  form; 
To  me  she  seemed  a  proudly-swaying  palm 
Grown  lovelier  for  passing  through  a  storm. 
Upon  her  swarthy  neck  black,  shiny  curls 
Profusely  fell;  and,  tossing  coins  in  praise. 
The  wine-flushed,  bold-eyed  boys,  and  even  the  girls, 
Devoured  her  with  their  eager,  passionate  gaze; 
But,  looking  at  her  falsely-smiling  face 
I  knew  her  self  was  not  in  that  strange  place. 


Claude  McKay  127 


HARLEM  SHADOWS 

I  hear  the  halting  footsteps  of  a  lass 

In  Negro  Harlem  when  the  night  lets  fall 

Its  veil.    I  see  the  shapes  of  girls  who  pass 
Eager  to  heed  desire's  insistent  call: 

Ah,  little  dark  girls,  who  in  slippered  feet 

Go  prowling  through  the  night  from  street  to  street. 

Through  the  long  night  until  the  silver  break 

Of  day  the  little  gray  feet  know  no  rest, 
Through  the  lone  night  until  the  last  snow-flake 

Has  dropped  from  heaven  upon  the  earth's  white  breast, 
The  dusky,  half-clad  girls  of  tired  feet 

Are  trudging,  thinly  shod,  from  street  to  street. 

Ah,  stern  harsh  world,  that  in  the  wretched  way 

Of  poverty,  dishonor  and  disgrace. 
Has  pushed  the  timid  little  feet  of  clay. 

The  sacred  brown  feet  of  my  fallen  race ! 
Ah,  heart  of  me,  the  weary,  weary  feet 

In  Harlem  wandering  from  street  to  street. 


138  Claude  McKay 


AFTER  THE  WINTER 

Some  day,  when  trees  have  shed  their  leaves, 

And  against  the  morning's  white 
The  shivering  birds  beneath  the  eaves 

Have  sheltered  for  the  night, 
We'll  turn  our  faces  southward,  love, 

Toward  the  summer  isle 
Where  bamboos  spire  the  shafted  grove 

And  wide-mouthed  orchids  smile. 

And  we  will  seek  the  quiet  hill 

Where  towers  the  cotton  tree, 
And  leaps  the  laughing  crystal  rill. 

And  works  the  droning  bee. 
And  we  will  build  a  lonely  nest 

Beside  an  open  glade, 
And  there  forever  will  we  rest, 

O  love — O  nut-brown  maid! 


Claude  McKay  139 


SPRING  IN  NEW  HAMPSHIRE 

Too  green  the  springing  April  grass, 
Too  blue  the  silver  speckled  sky, 
For  me  to  linger  here,  alas, 
While  happy  winds  go  laughing  by. 
Wasting  the  golden  hours  indoors. 
Washing  windows  and  scrubbing  floors. 

Too  wonderful  the  April  night. 

Too  faintly  sweet  the  first  May  flowers, 

The  stars  too  gloriously  bright, 

For  me  to  spend  the  evening  hours, 

When  fields  are  fresh  and  streams  are  leaping, 

Wearied,  exhausted,  dully  sleeping. 


140  Claude  McKay 


THE  TIRED  WORKER 

O  whisper,  O  my  soul! — the  afternoon 

Is  waning  into  evening — whisper  soft! 

Peace,  O  my  rebel  heart!  for  soon  the  moon 

From  out  its  misty  veil  will  swing  aloft! 

Be  patient,  weary  body,  soon  the  night 

Will  wrap  thee  gently  in  her  sable  sheet, 

And  with  a  leaden  sigh  thou  wilt  invite 

To  rest  thy  tired  hands  and  aching  feet. 

The  wretched  day  was  theirs,  the  night  is  mine; 

Come,  tender  sleep,  and  fold  me  to  thy  breast. 

But  what  steals  out  the  gray  clouds  red  like  wine? 

O  dawn!    O  dreaded  dawn!    O  let  me  rest! 

Weary  my  veins,  my  brain,  my  life, — have  pity! 

No !    Once  again  the  hard,  the  ugly  city. 


Claude  McKay  141 


THE  BARRIER 

I  must  not  gaze  at  them  although 
Your  eyes  are  dawning  day ; 

I  must  not  watch  you  as  you  go 
Your  sun-illumined  way; 

I  hear  but  I  must  never  heed 

The  fascinating  note, 
Which,  fluting  like  a  river-reed, 

Comes  from  your  trembling  throat  ; 

I  must  not  see  upon  your  face 
Love's  softly  glowing  spark; 

For  there's  the  barrier  of  race, 
You're  fair  and  I  am  dark. 


142  Claude  McKay 


TO  O.  E.  A. 

Your  voice  is  the  color  of  a  robin's  breast, 
And  there's  a  sweet  sob  in  it  like  rain — still  rain  in  the 
night. 
Among  the  leaves  of  the  trumpet-tree,  close  to  his  nest, 
The   pea-dove  sings,   and   each   note   thrills   me  with 
strange  delight 
Like  the  words,  wet  with  music,  that  well  from  your 
trembling  throat. 
I'm  afraid  of  your  eyes,  they're  so  bold. 
Searching  me  through,  reading  my  thoughts,  shining 
like  gold. 
But  sometimes  they  are  gentle  and  soft  like  the  dew  on 

the  lips  of  the  eucharis 
Before  the  sun  comes  warm  with  his  lover's  kiss, 

You  are  sea-foam,  pure  with  the  star's  loveliness, 
Not  mortal,  a  flower,  a  fairy,  too  fair  for  the  beauty- 
shorn  earth. 
All  wonderful  things,  all  beautiful  things,  gave  of  theii 
wealth  to  your  birth : 
O  I  love  you  so  much,  not  recking  of  passion,  that  I 
feel  it  is  wrong. 
But  men  will  love  you,   flower,  fairy,  non-mortal 
spirit  burdened  with  flesh, 
Forever,  life-long. 


Claude  McKay  143 


FLAME-HEART 

So  much  have  I  forgotten  in  ten  years, 

So  much  in  ten  brief  years;  I  have  forgot 
What  time  the  purple  apples  come  to  juice 

And  what  month  brings  the  shy  forget-me-not; 
Forgotten  is  the  special,  startling  season 

Of  some  beloved  tree's  flowering  and  fruiting. 
What  time  of  year  the  ground  doves  brown  the  fields 

And  fill  the  noonday  with  their  curious  fluting: 
I  have  forgotten  much,  but  still  remember 
The  poinsettia's  red,  blood-red  in  warm  December. 

I  still  recall  the  honey-fever  grass. 

But  I  cannot  bring  back  to  mind  just  when 
We  rooted  them  out  of  the  ping-wing  path 

To  stop  the  mad  bees  in  the  rabbit  pen. 
I  often  try  to  think  in  what  sweet  month 

The  languid  painted  ladies  used  to  dapple 
The  yellow  bye  road  mazing  from  the  main, 

Sweet  with  the  golden  threads  of  the  rose-apple: 
I  have  forgotten,  strange,  but  quite  remember 
The  poinsettia's  red,  blood-red  in  warm  December. 

What  weeks,  what  months,  what  time  o'  the  mild  year 
We  cheated  school  to  have  our  fling  at  tops? 

What  days  our  wine-thrilled  bodies  pulsed  with  joy 
Feasting  upon  blackberries  in  the  copse? 


144  Claude  McKay 

Oh,  some  I  know!    I  have  embalmed  the  days, 
Even  the  sacred  moments,  when  we  played, 

All  innocent  of  passion  uncorrupt, 

At  noon  and  evening  in  the  flame-heart's  shade; 

We  were  so  happy,  happy, — I  remember 

Beneath  the  poinsettia's  red  in  warm  December. 


Claude  McKay  145 


TWO-AN'-SIX 

Merry  voices  chatterin', 
Nimble  feet  dem  patterin*, 
Big  an'  little,  faces  gay, 
Happy  day  dis  market  day. 

Sateday,  de  marnin'  break, 
Soon,  soon  market-people  wake; 
An'  de  light  shine  from  de  moon 
While  dem  boy,  wid  pantaloon 
Roll  up  ober  dem  knee-pan, 
'Tep  across  de  buccra  Ian' 
To  de  pastur  whe'  de  harse 
Feed  along  wid  de  jackass. 
An'  de  mule  cant'  in  de  track 
Wid  him  tail  up  in  him  back, 
All  de  ketchin'  to  defy, 
No  ca'  how  dem  boy  might  try. 

In  de  early  mamin'-tide. 
When  de  cocks  crow  on  de  hill 
An'  de  stars  are  shinin'  still, 
Mirrie  by  de  fireside 
Hots  de  coffee  for  de  lads 
Comin*  ridin'  on  de  pads 
T'rown  across  dem  animul — 
Donkey,  harse  too,  an'  de  mule, 
Which  at  last  had  come  do'n  cool. 
On  de  bit  dem  hoi'  dem  full : 


146  Claude  McKay 

Racin'  ober  pastur'  Ian', 
See  dem  comin'  ebery  man, 
Comin'  fe  de  steamin'  tea 
Ober  hilly  track  an'  lea. 

Hard-wuk'd  donkey  on  de  road 
Trottin'  wid  him  ushal  load, 
Hamper  pack'  wi'  yam  an'  grain, 
Sour-sop,  and  Gub'nor  cane. 

Cous'  Sun  sits  in  hired  dray, 
Drivin'  'long  de  market  way ; 
Whole  week  grindin'  sugar  cane 
T'rough  de  boilin'  sun  an'  rain. 
Now,  a'ter  de  toilin'  hard. 
He  goes  seekin*  his  reward. 
While  he's  thinkin'  in  him  min* 
Of  de  dear  ones  lef  behin', 
Of  de  loved  though  ailin'  wife, 
Darlin'  treasure  of  his  life. 
An'  de  picknies,  six  in  all. 
Whose  'nuff  burdens  'pon  him  fall 
Seben  lovin'  ones  in  need, 
Seben  hungry  mouths  fe  feed ; 
On  deir  wants  he  thinks  alone, 
Neber  dreamin'  of  his  own. 
But  gwin'  on  wid  joyful  face 
Till  him  re'ch  de  market-place. 

Sugar  bears  no  price  to-day, 
Though  it  is  de  mont'  o'  May, 


Claude  McKay  147 

When  de  time  Is  hellish  hot, 
An'  de  water  cocoanut 
An'  de  cane  bebridge  is  nice, 
Mix'  up  wid  a  lilly  ice. 
Big  an'  little,  great  an'  small, 
Af ou  yam  is  all  de  call ; 
Sugar  tup  an'  gill  a  quart, 
Yet  de  people  hab  de  heart 
Wantin'  brater  top  o'  i'. 
Want  de  sweatin'  higgler  fe 
Ram  de  pan  an'  pile  i'  up. 
Yet  sell  i'  fe  so-so  tup. 

Cousin  Sun  is  lookin'  sad. 

As  de  market  is  so  bad ; 

Ton  him  han'  him  res'  him  chin. 

Quietly  sit  do'n  thinkin' 

Of  de  loved  wife  sick  in  bed, 

An'  de  children  to  be  fed — 

What  de  laborers  would  say 

When  dem  know  him  couldn'  pay; 

Also  what  about  de  mill 

Whe'  him  hire  from  ole  Bill; 

So  him  think,  an'  think  on  so. 

Till  him  t'oughts  no  more  could  go. 

Then  he  got  up  an'  began 
Pickin'  up  him  sugar-pan : 
In  his  ears  rang  t'rough  de  din 
"Only  two-an'-six  a  tin'." 
What  a  tale  he'd  got  to  tell. 
How  bad,  bad  de  sugar  sell ! 


148  Claude  McKay 

Tekin'  out  de  lee  amount, 
Him  set  do'n  an'  begin  count 
All  de  time  him  min'  deh  doubt 
How  expenses  would  pay  out; 
Ah,  it  gnawed  him  like  de  ticks, 
Sugar  sell  fe  two-an'-six! 


So  he  journeys  on  de  way, 
Feelin'  sad  dis  market  day; 
No  e'en  buy  a  little  cake 
To  gi'e  baby  when  she  wake, — 
Passin'  'long  de  candy-shop 
'Douten  eben  mek  a  stop 
To  buy  drops  fe  las'y  son. 
For  de  lilly  cash  nea'  done. 
So  him  re'ch  him  own  a  groun', 
An'  de  children  scamper  roun', 
Each  one  stretchin'  out  him  han*, 
Lookin'  to  de  poor  sad  man. 

Oh,  how  much  he  felt  de  blow. 
As  he  watched  dem  face  fall  low, 
When  dem  wait  an'  nuttin'  came 
An'  drew  back  deir  ban's  wid  shame! 
But  de  sick  wife  kissed  his  brow: 
"Sun,  don't  get  down-hearted  now; 
Ef  we  only  pay  expense 
We  mus'  wuk  we  common-sense, 
Cut  an'  carve,  an'  carve  an'  cut, 
Mek  gill  sarbe  fe  quattiewut; 


Claude  McKay  149 

We  mus*  try  mek  two  ends  meet 
Neber  mind  how  hard  be  it. 
We  won't  mind  de  haul  an'  pull, 
While  dem  pickny  belly  full." 

An'  de  shadow  lef  him  face, 
An'  him  felt  an  inward  peace. 
As  he  blessed  his  better  part 
For  her  sweet  an'  gentle  heart : 
"Dear  one  o'  my  heart,  my  breat', 
Won't  I  lub  you  to  de  deat'? 
When  my  heart  is  weak  an'  sad, 
Who  but  you  can  mek  it  glad?" 

So  dey  kissed  an'  kissed  again, 
An'  deir  t'oughts  were  not  on  pain, 
But  was  'way  down  in  de  sout' 
Where  dey'd  wedded  in  deir  yout', 
In  de  marnin'  of  deir  life 
Free  from  all  de  grief  an'  strife, 
Happy  in  de  marnin'  light. 
Never  thinkin'  of  de  night. 

So  dey  k'lated  eberyt'ing; 
An'  de  profit  it  could  bring, 
A'ter  all  de  business  fix'. 
Was  a  princely  two-an'-six. 


Joseph  S.  Cotter,  Jr. 

A  PRAYER 

As  I  lie  in  bed, 

Flat  on  my  back ; 

There  passes  across  my  ceiling 

An  endless  panorama  of  things — 

Quick  steps  of  gay-voiced  children, 

Adolescence  in  its  wondering  silences. 

Maid  and  man  on  moonlit  summer's  eve, 

Women  in  the  holy  glow  of  Motherhood, 

Old  men  gazing  silently  thru  the  twilight 

Into  the  beyond. 

O  God,  give  me  words  to  make  my  dream-children  live. 


151 


152  Joseph  S.  Cotter,  Jr. 


AND  WHAT  SHALL  YOU  SAY? 

Brother,  come! 

And  let  us  go  unto  our  God. 

And  when  we  stand  before  Him 

I  shall  say — 

"Lord,  I  do  not  hate, 

I  am  hated. 

I  scourge  no  one, 

I  am  scourged. 

I  covet  no  lands. 

My  lands  are  coveted. 

I  mock  no  peoples. 

My  people  are  mocked." 

And,  brother,  what  shall  you  say? 


Joseph  S.  Cotter,  Jr,  153 


IS  IT  BECAUSE  I  AM  BLACK? 

Why  do  men  smile  when  I  speak, 

And  call  my  speech 

The  whimperings  of  a  babe 

That  cries  but  knows  not  what  it  wants? 

Is  it  because  I  am  black? 

Why  do  men  sneer  when  I  arise 
And  stand  in  their  councils, 
And  look  them  eye  to  eye. 
And  speak  their  tongue? 
Is  it  because  I  am  black? 


154  Joseph  S.  Cotter,  Jr. 


THE  BAND  OF  GIDEON 

The  band  of  Gideon  roam  the  sky, 
The  howling  wind  is  their  war-cry, 
The  thunder's  roll  is  their  trump's  peal, 
And  the  lightning's  flash  their  vengeful  steel. 

Each  black  cloud 

Is  a  fiery  steed. 

And  they  cry  aloud 

With  each  strong  deed, 
"The  sword  of  the  Lord  and  Gideon." 

And  men  below  rear  temples  high 

And    mock  their  God  with  reasons  why, 

And  live  in  arrogance,  sin  and  shame, 

And  rape  their  souls  for  the  world's  good  name. 

Each  black  cloud 

Is  a  fiery  steed. 

And  they  cry  aloud 

With  each  strong  deed, 
"The  sword  of  the  Lord  and  Gideon.'* 

The  band  of  Gideon  roam  the  sky 

And  view  the  earth  with  baleful  eye; 

In  holy  wrath  they  scourge  the  land 

With  earth-quake,  storm  and  burning  brand. 

Each  black  cloud 

Is  a  fiery  steed. 

And  they  cry  aloud 

With  each  strong  deed, 
"The  sword  of  the  Lord  and  Gideon." 


Joseph  S.  Cotter,  Jr.  155 

The  lightnings  flash  and  the  thunders  roll, 
And  "Lord  have  mercy  on  my  soul," 
Cry  men  as  they  fall  on  the  stricken  sod, 
In  agony  searching  for  their  God. 

Each  black  cloud 

Is  a  fiery  steed. 

And  they  cry  aloud 

With  each  strong  deed, 
"The  sword  of  the  Lord  and  Gideon." 

And  men  repent  and  then  forget 

That  heavenly  w^rath  they  ever  met, 

The  band  of  Gideon  yet  will  come 

And  strike  their  tongues  of  blasphemy  dumb. 

Each  black  cloud 

Is  a  fiery  steed. 

And  they  cry  aloud 

With  each  strong  deed, 
"The  sword  of  the  Lord  and  Gideon." 


156  Joseph  S.  Cotter,  Jr. 


RAIN  MUSIC 

On  the  dusty  earth-drum 
Beats  the  falling  rain; 

Now  a  whispered  murmur, 
Now  a  louder  strain. 

Slender,  silvery  drumsticks. 
On  an  ancient  drum, 

Beat  the  mellow  music 
Bidding  life  to  come. 

Chords  of  earth  awakened, 
Notes  of  greening  spring, 

Rise  and  fall  triumphant 
Over  every  thing. 

Slender,   silvery   drumsticks 
Beat  the  long  tattoo — 

God,  the  Great  Musician, 
Calling  life  anew. 


Joseph  S.  Cotter,  Jr.  157 


SUPPLICATION 

I  am  so  tired  and  weary, 

So  tired  of  the  endless  fight, 

So  weary  of  waiting  the  dawn 
And  finding  endless  night. 

That  I  ask  but  rest  and  quiet — 
Rest  for  days  that  are  gone. 

And  quiet  for  the  little  space 
That  I  must  journey  on. 


Roscoe  C.  Jamison 

THE  NEGRO  SOLDIERS 

These  truly  are  the  Brave, 

These  men  who  cast  aside 

Old  memories,  to  walk  the  blood-stained  pave 

Of  Sacrifice,  joining  the  solemn  tide 

That  moves  away,  to  suffer  and  to  die 

For  Freedom — when  their  own  is  yet  denied ! 

O  Pride!    O  Prejudice!    When  they  pass  by, 

Hail  them,  the  Brave,  for  you  now  crucified! 

These  truly  are  the  Free, 

These  souls  that  grandly  rise 

Above  base  dreams  of  vengeance  for  their  wrongs, 

Who  march  to  war  with  visions  in  their  eyes 

Of  Peace  through  Brotherhood,  lifting  glad  songs, 

Aforetime,  while  they  front  the  firing  line. 

Stand  and  behold !    They  take  the  field  to-day, 

Shedding  their  blood  like  Him  now  held  divine, 

'Kiat  those  who  mock  might  find  a  better  way! 


«S9 


Jessie  Fauset 

LA  VIE  C'EST  LA  VIE 

On  summer  afternoons  I  sit 
Quiescent  by  you  in  the  park, 
And  idly  watch  the  sunbeams  gild 
And  tint  the  ash-trees*  bark. 

Or  else  I  watch  the  squirrels  frisk 
And  chafFer  in  the  grassy  lane; 
And  all  the  while  I  mark  your  voice 
Breaking  with  love  and  pain. 

I  know  a  woman  who  would  give 
Her  chance  of  heaven  to  take  my  place; 
To  see  the  love-light  in  your  eyes, 
The  love-glow  on  your  face ! 

And  there's  a  man  whose  lightest  word 
Can  set  my  chilly  blood  afire; 
Fulfilment  of  his  least  behest 
Defines  my  life's  desire. 

But  he  will  none  of  me.  Nor  I 
Of  you.    Nor  you  of  her.    'Tis  said 
The  world  is  full  of  jests  like  these.— 
I  wish  that  I  were  dead. 
x6i 


1 62  Jessie  Fauset 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  FRANCE 

Oh  little  Christ,  why  do  you  sigh 

As  you  look  down  to-night 
On  breathless  France,  on  bleeding  France, 

And  all  her  dreadful  plight? 
What  bows  your  childish  head  so  low? 

What  turns  your  cheek  so  white  ? 

Oh  little  Christ,  why  do  you  moan, 

•   What  is  it  that  you  see 

In  mourning  France,  in  martyred  France, 

And  her  great  agony? 
Does  she  recall  your  own  dark  day, 

Your  own  Gethsemane? 

Oh  little  Christ,  why  do  you  weep. 

Why  flow  your  tears  so  sore 
For  pleading  France,  for  praying  France, 

A  suppliant  at  God's  door? 
"God  sweetened  not  my  cup,"  you  say, 

"Shall  He  for  France  do  more?" 

Oh  little  Christ,  what  can  this  mean, 

Why  must  this  horror  be 
For  fainting  France,  for  faithful  France, 

And  her  sweet  chivalry? 
**I  bled  to  free  all  men,"  you  say 

"France  bleeds  to  keep  men  free." 


Jessie  Fauset  163 

Oh  little,  lovely  Christ — you  smile! 

What  guerdon  is  in  store 
For  gallant  France,  for  glorious  France, 

And  all  her  valiant  corps  ? 
"Behold  I  live,  and  France,  like  me. 

Shall  live  for  evermore." 


164  Jessie  Fauset 


DEAD  FIRES 

If  this  is  peace,  this  dead  and  leaden  thing, 
Then  better  far  the  hateful  fret,  the  sting. 

Better  the  wound  forever  seeking  balm 
Than  this  gray  calm ! 

Is  this  pain's  surcease  ?    Better  far  the  ache, 

The  long-drawn  dreary  day,  the  night's  white  wake, 

Better  the  choking  sigh,  the  sobbing  breath 
Than  passion's  death! 


Jessie  Fauset  165 


ORIFLAMME 

"I  can  remember  when  I  was  a  little,  young  girl,  how  my  old 
mammy  would  sit  out  of  doors  in  the  evenings  and  look  up  at 
the  stars  and  groan,  and  I  would  say,  'Mammy,  what  makes 
you  groan  so?'  And  she  would  say,  *I  am  groaning  to  think 
of  my  poor  children;  they  do  not  know  where  I  be  and  I  don't 
know  where  they  be.  I  look  up  at  the  stars  and  they  look  up 
at  the    stars !  '  " — Sojourner   Truth. 

I  think  I  see  her  sitting  bowed  and  black, 

Stricken  and  seared  with  slavery's  mortal  scars, 

Reft  of  her  children,  lonely,  anguished,  yet 
Still  looking  at  the  stars. 

Symbolic  mother,  we  thy  myriad  sons. 

Pounding  our  stubborn  hearts  on  Freedom's  bars, 

Clutching  our  birthright,  fight  with  faces  set, 
Still  visioning  the  stars! 


1 66  Jessie  Fauset 

OBLIVION 
From  the  French  of  Massillon  Coicou  {Haiti) 

I  hope  when  I  am  dead  that  I  shall  lie 

In  some  deserted  grave — I  cannot  tell  you  why, 

But  I  should  like  to  sleep  in  some  neglected  spot 
Unknown  to  every  one,  by  every  one  forgot. 

There  lying  I  should  taste  with  my  dead  breath 
The  utter  lack  of  life,  the  fullest  sense  of  death  ; 

And  I  should  never  hear  the  note  of  jealousy  or  hate, 
The  tribute  paid  by  passersby  to  tombs  of  state. 

To  me  would  never  penetrate  the  prayers  and  tears 
That  futilely  bring  torture  to  dead  and  dying  ears; 

There  I  should  lie  annihilate  and  my  dead  heart  would 
bless 
Oblivion — the  shroud  and  envelope  of  happiness. 


Anne  Spencer 

BEFORE  THE  FEAST  OF  SHUSHAN 

Garden  of  Shushan! 

After  Eden,  all  terrace,  pool,  and  flower  recollect  thee: 

Ye  weavers  in  saffron  and  haze  and  Tyrlan  purple, 

Tell  yet  what  range  in  color  wakes  the  eye  ; 

Sorcerer,  release  the  dreams  born  here  when 

Drowsy,  shifting  palm-shade  enspells  the  brain; 

And  sound!  ye  with  harp  and  flute  ne'er  essay 

Before  these  star-noted  birds  escaped  from  paradise  awhile 

to 
Stir  all  dark,  and  dear,  and  passionate  desire,  till  mine 
Arms  go  out  to  be  mocked  by  the  softly  kissing  body  of 

the  wind — 
Slave,  send  Vashti  to  her  King! 

The  fiery  wattles  of  the  sun  startle  into  flame 
The  marbled  towers  of  Shushan : 
So  at  each  day's  wane,  two  peers — the  one  in 
Heaven,  the  other  on  earth — welcome  with  their 
Splendor  the  peerless  beauty  of  the  Queen. 

Cushioned  at  the  Queen's  feet  and  upon  her  knee 
Finding  glory  for  mine  head, — still,  nearly  shamed 
Am  I,  the  King,  to  bend  and  kiss  with  sharp 
Breath  the  olive-pink  of  sandaled  toes  between; 

167 


i68  Anne  Spencer 

Or  lift  me  high  to  the  magnet  of  a  gaze,  dusky, 
Like  the  pool  when  but  the  moon-ray  strikes  to  its  depth; 
Or  closer  press  to  crush  a  grape  'gainst  lips  redder 
Than  the  grape,  a  rose  in  the  night  of  her  hair; 
Then — Sharon's  Rose  in  my  arms. 

And  I  am  hard  to  force  the  petals  wide; 

And  you  are  fast  to  suffer  and  be  sad. 

Is  any  prophet  come  to  teach  a  new  thing 

Now  in  a  more  apt  time? 

Have  him  'maze  how  you  say  love  is  sacrament; 

How  says  Vashti,  love  is  both  bread  and  wine ; 

How  to  the  altar  may  not  come  to  break  and  drink, 

Hulky  flesh  nor  fleshly  spirit! 

I,  thy  lord,  like  not  manna  for  meat  as  a  Judahn ; 
I,  thy  master,  drink,  and  red  wine,  plenty,  and  when 
I  thirst.     Eat  meat,  and  full,  when  I  hunger. 
I,  thy  King,  teach  you  and  leave  you,  when  I  list. 
No  woman  in  all  Persia  sets  out  strange  action 
To  confuse  Persia's  lord — 
Love  is  but  desire  and  thy  purpose  fulfillment; 
I,  thy  King,  so  say ! 


Anne  Spencer  169 


AT  THE  CARNIVAL 

Gay  little  Girl-of-the-DivIng-Tank, 

I  desire  a  name  for  you, 

Nice,  as  a  right  glove  fits; 

For  you — who  amid  the  malodorous 

Mechanics  of  this  unlovely  thing, 

Are  darling  of  spirit  and  form. 

I  know  you — a  glance,  and  what  you  are 

Sits-by-the-fire  in  my  heart. 

My  Limousine-Lady  knows  you,  or 

Why  does  the  slant-envy  of  her  eye  mark 

Your  straight  air  and  radiant  inclusive  smile? 

Guilt  pins  a  fig-leaf ;  Innocence  is  its  own  adorning. 

The  bull-necked  man  knows  you — this  first  time 

His  itching  flesh  sees  form  divine  and  vibrant  health 

And  thinks  not  of  his  avocation. 

I  came  incuriously — 

Set  on  no  diversion  save  that  my  mind 

Might  safely  nurse  its  brood  of  misdeeds 

In  the  presence  of  a  blind  crowd. 

The  color  of  life  was  gray. 

Everywhere  the  setting  seemed  right 

For  my  mood. 

Here  the  sausage  and  garlic  booth 

Sent  unholy  incense  skyward; 

There  a  quivering  female-thing 

Gestured  assignations,  and  lied 

To  call  it  dancing; 


lyo  Anne  Spencer 

There,  too,  were  games  of  chance 

With  chances  for  none ; 

But  oh !  Girl-of-the-Tank,  at  last ! 

Gleaming  Girl,  how  intimately  pure  and  free 

The  gaze  you  send  the  crowd, 

As  though  you  know  the  dearth  of  beauty 

In  its  sordid  life. 

We  need  you — my  Limousine-Lady, 

The  bull-necked  man  and  I. 

Seeing  you  here  brave  and  water-clean, 

Leaven  for  the  heavy  ones  of  earth, 

I  am  swift  to  feel  that  what  makes 

The  plodder  glad  is  good ;  and 

Whatever  is  good  is  God. 

The  wonder  is  that  you  are  here ; 

I  have  seen  the  queer  in  queer  places, 

But  never  before  a  heaven-fed 

Naiad  of  the  Carnival-Tank! 

Little  Diver,  Destiny  for  you. 

Like  as  for  me,  is  shod  in  silence; 

Years  may  seep  into  your  soul 

The  bacilli  of  the  usual  and  the  expedient; 

I  implore  Neptune  to  claim  his  child  to-day  I 


Anne  Spencer  i^ji 


THE  WIFE-WOMAN 

Maker-of-Sevens  in  the  scheme  of  things 

From  earth  to  star ; 

Thy  cycle  holds  whatever  is  fate,  and 

Over  the  border  the  bar. 

Though  rank  and  fierce  the  mariner 

Sailing  the  seven  seas, 

He  prays,  as  he  holds  his  glass  to  his  eyes, 

Coaxing  the  Pleiades. 

I  cannot  love  them ;  and  I  feel  your  glad 

Chiding  from  the  grave, 

That  my  all  vi^as  only  worth  at  all,  what 

Joy  to  you  it  gave. 

These  seven  links  the  Law  compelled 

For  the  human  chain — 

I  cannot  love  them;  and  yoUj  oh. 

Seven-fold  months  in  Flanders  slain ! 

A  jungle  there,  a  cave  here,  bred  six 

And  a  million  years, 

Sure  and  strong,  mate  for  mate,  such 

Love  as  culture  fears ; 

I  gave  you  clear  the  oil  and  wine; 

You  saved  me  your  hob  and  hearth — 

See  how  even  life  may  be  ere  the 

Sickle  comes  and  leaves  a  swath. 


172  Anne  Spencer 

But  I  can  wait  the  seven  of  moons, 

Or  years  I  spare, 

Hoarding  the  heart's  plenty,  nor  spend 

A  drop,  nor  share — 

So  long  but  outlives  a  smile  and 

'A  silken  gown ; 

Then  gaily  I  reach  up  from  my  shroud, 

And  you,  glory-clad,  reach  down. 


Anne  Spencer  173 


TRANSLATION 

We  trekked  into  a  far  country, 

My  friend  and  I. 

Our  deeper  content  was  never  spoken, 

But  each  knew  all  the  other  said. 

He  told  me  how  calm  his  soul  was  laid 

By  the  lack  of  anvil  and  strife. 

"The  wooing  kestrel,"  I  said,  "mutes  his  mating-note 

To  please  the  harmony  of  this  sweet  silence." 

And  when  at  the  day's  end 

We  laid  tired  bodies  'gainst 

The  loose  warm  sands, 

And  the  air  fleeced  its  particles  for  a  coverlet; 

When  star  after  star  came  out 

To  guard  their  lovers  in  oblivion — 

My  soul  so  leapt  that  my  evening  prayer 

Stole  my  morning  song! 


174  Anne  Spencer 


DUNBAR 

Ah,  how  poets  sing  and  die ! 
Make  one  song  and  Heaven  takes  it; 
Have  one  heart  and  Beauty  breaks  it; 
Chatterton,  Shelley,  Keats  and  I — 
Ah,  how  poets  sing  and  die! 


Alex  Rogers 

WHY  ADAM  SINNED 

"I  heeard  da  ole  folks  talkin'  in  our  house  da  other  night 
*Bout  Adam  in  da  scripchuh  long  ago. 
Da  lady  folks  all  'bused  him,  sed,  he  knowed  ft  wus'n  right 
An'  'cose  da  men  folks  dey  all  sed,  "Dat's  so." 
I  felt  sorry  fuh  Mistuh  Adam,  an'  I  felt  like  puttin'  in, 
'Cause  I  knows  mo'  dan  dey  do,  all  'bout  whut  made 
Adam  sin: 

Adam  nevuh  had  no  Mammy,  fuh  to  take  him  on  her 

knee 
An'  teach  him  right  fum  wrong  an'  show  him 
Things  he  ought  to  see. 

I  knows  down  in  my  heart — he'd-a  let  dat  apple  be 
But  Adam  nevuh  had  no  dear  old  Ma-am-my. 

He  nevuh  knowed  no  chilehood  roun*  da  ole  log  cabin  do*, 

He  nevuh  knowed  no  pickaninny  life. 

He  started  in  a  great  big  grown  up  man,  an'  whut  is  mo', 

He  nevuh  had  da  right  kind  uf  a  wife. 

Jes  s'pose  he'd  had  a  Mammy  when  dat  temptin'  did  begin 

An'  she'd  a  come  an'  tole  him 

"Son,  don'  eat  dat — dat's  a  sin." 

175 


176  Alex  Rogers 

But,  Adam  nevuh  had  no  Mammy  fuh  to  take  him  on  her 

knee 
An*  teach  him  right  fum  wrong  an*  show  him 
Things  he  ought  to  see. 

I  knows  down  in  my  heart  he'd  a  let  dat  apple  be, 
But  Adam  nevuh  had  no  dear  old  Ma-am-my. 


Alex  Rogers  177 


THE  RAIN  SONG 

Bro.  Simmons 
"Walk  right  in  Brother  Wilson — ^how  you  feelin*   to- 
day?" 

Bro,  Wilson. 
"Jes  Mod'rate,  Brother  Simmons,  but  den  I  ginnerly  feels 
dat  way.'* 

Bro.  Simmons 
"Here's  White  an'  Black  an'  Brown  an'  Green;  how's 
all  you  gent'men's  been?" 

Bro.  White 
"My  health  is  good  but  my  bus'ness  slack." 

Bro.  Black 
"I'se  been  sufE'rin'  lots  wid  pains  in  my  back." 

Bro.  Brown 
"My  ole  'ooman's  sick,  but  I'se  alright — " 

Bro.  Green 
"Yes,  I  went  aftuh  Doctuh  fuh  her  'tuther  night—" 

Bro.  Simmons 
"Here's  Sandy  Turner,  as  I  live!" 


178  Alex  Rogers 

Bro.  Turner 
"Yes,  I  didn'  *spect  to  git  here — but  here  I  is!" 

Bro.  Simmons 
"Now,  gent'mens,  make  yo'selves  to  home, 
Dare's  nothin'  to  fear — my  ole  'ooman's  gone — 
My  stars;  da  weather's  pow'ful  warm — 
I  wouldn'  be  s'prised  ef  we  had  a  storm." 

Bro.  Brown 
"No,  Brother  Simmons,  we  kin  safely  say — 
'Tain't  gwine  to  be  no  storm  to-day 
Kase  here  am  facts  dat's  mighty  plain 
An'  any  time  you  sees  'em  you  kin  look  f  uh  rain : 
Any  time  you  hears  da  cheers  an'  tables  crack 
An'  da  folks  wid  rheumatics — dare  jints  is  on  da  rack — " 

All 

"Lookout  fuh  rain,  rain,  rain. 

"When  da  ducks  quack  loud  an'  da  peacocks  cry, 
An'  da  far  off  hills  seems  to  be  right  nigh. 
Prepare  fuh  rain,  rain,  rain! 

"When  da  ole  cat  on  da  hearth  wid  her  velvet  paws 
'Gins  to  wipin'  over  her  whiskered  jaws, 
Sho'  sign  o'  rain,  rain,  rain! 

"When  da  frog's  done  changed  his  yaller  vest, 
An'  in  his  brown  suit  he  is  dressed. 
Mo*  rain,  an'  still  mo'  rain ! 


Alex  Rogers  179 

"When  you  notice  da  air  it  Stan's  stock  still, 
An'  da  blackbird's  voice  it  gits  so  awful  shrill, 
Dat  am  da  time  fuh  rain. 

"When  yo'  dog  quits  bones  an'  begins  to  fas'. 
An'  when  you  see  him  eatin';  he's  eatin'  grass: 
Shoes',  trues',  cert'nes  sign  ob  rain!" 

Refrain 
"No,  Brother  Simmons,  we  kin  safely  say, 
'Tain't  gwine  tuh  be  no  rain  to-day, 
Kase  da  sut  ain't  fallin'  an'  da  dogs  ain't  sleep. 
An'  you  ain't  seen  no  spiders  f um  dare  cobwebs  creep ; 
Las'  night  da  sun  went  bright  to  bed, 
An'  da  moon  ain't  nevah  once  been  seen  to  hang  her 

head  ; 
If  you'se  watched  all  dis,  den  you  kin  safely  say, 
Dat  dare  ain't  a-gwine  to  be  no  rain  to-day." 


Waverley  Turner  Carmichael 

KEEP  ME,  JESUS,  KEEP  ME 

Keep  me  'neath  Thy  mighty  wing, 

Keep  me,  Jesus,  keep  me; 

Help  me  praise  Thy  Holy  name, 

Keep  me,  Jesus,  keep  me. 

O  my  Lamb,  come,  my  Lamb, 

O  my  good  Lamb, 

Save  me,  Jesus,  save  me. 

Hear  me  as  I  cry  to  Thee; 
Keep  me,  Jesus,  keep  me; 
May  I  that  bright  glory  see; 
Keep  me,  Jesus,  keep  me. 
O  my  Lamb,  my  good  Lamb, 
O  my  good  Lamb, 
Keep  me,  Jesus,  keep  me. 


i8z 


1 82         Waverley  Turner  Carmichael 


WINTER  IS  COMING 

De  winter  days  are  drawin'  nigh 
An*  by  the  fire  I  sets  an'  sigh ; 
De  nothe'n  win'  is  blowin'  cold, 
Like  it  done  in  days  of  old. 

De  yaller  leafs  are  fallin'  fas', 
Fur  summer  days  is  been  an'  pas' ; 
The  air  is  blowin'  mighty  cold, 
Like  it  done  in  days  of  old. 

De  frost  is  fallin'  on  de  gras' 
An'  seem  to  say  "Dis  is  yo'  las'  " — 
De  air  is  blowin'  mighty  cold 
Like  it  done  in  days  of  old. 


Alice  Dunbar-Nelson 

SONNET 

I  had  no  thought  of  violets  of  late, 

The  wild,  shy  kind  that  spring  beneath  your  feet 

In  wistful  April  days,  when  lovers  mate 

And  wander  through  the  fields  in  raptures  sweet. 

The  thought  of  violets  meant  florists'  shops. 

And  bows  and  pins,  and  perfumed  papers  fine; 

And  garish  lights,  and  mincing  little  fops 

And  cabarets  and  songs,  and  deadening  wine. 

So  far  from  sweet  real  things  my  thoughts  had  strayed, 

I  had  forgot  wide  fields,  and  clear  brown  streams; 

The  perfect  loveliness  that  God  has  made, — 

Wild  violets  shy  and  Heaven-mounting  dreams. 

And  now — unwittingly,  you've  made  me  dream 

Of  violets,  and  my  soul's  forgotten  gleam. 


X83 


Charles  Bertram  Johnson 

A  LITTLE  CABIN 

Des  a  little  cabin 

Big  ernuff  fur  two. 

Des  awaitin',  honey, 

Cozy  fixt  fur  you ; 

Down  dah  by  de  road, 

Not  ve'y  far  from  town, 

Waitin'  fur  de  missis, 

When  she's  ready  to  come  down, 

Des  a  little  cabin. 
An*  er  acre  o'  groun*, 
Vines  agrowin*  on  it. 
Fruit  trees  all  aroun*, 
Hollyhawks  a-bloomin' 
In  de  gyahden  plot — 
Honey,  would  you  like  to 
Own  dat  little  spot? 

Make  dat  little  cabin 
Cheery,  clean  an'  bright, 
With  an'  angel  in  it 
Like  a  ray  of  light? 
Make  dat  little  palace 
Somethin'  fine  an'  gran', 
Make  it  like  an  Eden, 
Fur  a  lonely  man? 
185 


1 86  Charles  Bertram  Johnson 

Des  you  listen,  Honey, 
While  I  'splain  it  all, 
How  some  lady's  go'nter 
Boss  dat  little  hall; 
Des  you  take  my  han* 
Dat's  de  way  it's  writ, 
Des  you  take  my  heart, 
Dat's  de  deed  to  it. 


Charles  Bertram  Johnson  187 


NEGRO  POETS 

Full  many  lift  and  sing 
Their  sweet  imagining; 
Not  yet  the  Lyric  Seer, 
The  one  bard  of  the  throng, 
With  highest  gift  of  song, 
Breaks  on  our  sentient  ear. 

Not  yet  the  gifted  child, 
With  notes  enraptured,  wild, 
That  storm  and  throng  the  heart, 
To  make  his  rage  our  own. 
Our  hearts  his  lyric  throne ; 
Hard  won  by  cosmic  art. 

I  hear  the  sad  refrain. 
Of  slavery's  sorrow-strain; 
The  broken  half-lispt  speech 
Of  freedom's  twilit  hour; 
The  greater  growing  reach 
Of  larger  latent  power. 

Here  and  there  a  growing  note 
Swells  from  a  conscious  throat; 
Thrilled  with  a  message  fraught 
The  pregnant  hour  is  near; 
We  wait  our  Lyric  Seer, 
By  whom  our  wills  are  caught. 


1 88  Charles  Bertram  Johnson 

Who  makes  our  cause  and  wrong 
The  motif  of  his  song; 
Who  sings  our  racial  good, 
Bestows  us  honor's  place, 
The  cosmic  brotherhood 
Of  genius — not  of  race. 

Blind  Homer,  Greek  or  Jew, 
Of  fame's  immortal  few 
Would  still  be  deathless  bom; 
Frail  Dunbar,  black  or  white, 
In  Fame's  eternal  light, 
Would  shine  a  Star  of  Morn. 

An  unhorizoned  range, 
Our  hour  of  doubt  and  change. 
Gives  song  a  nightless  day. 
Whose  pen  with  pregnant  mirth 
Will  give  our  longings  birth, 
And  point  our  souls  the  way  ? 


Otto  Leland  Bohanan 

THE  DAWN'S  AWAKE! 

The  Dawn's  awake! 

A  flash  of  smoldering  flame  and  fire 
Ignites  the  East.    Then,  higher,  higher, 

O'er  all  the  sky  so  gray,  forlorn, 

The  torch  of  gold  is  borne. 

The  Dawn's  awake! 

The  dawn  of  a  thousand  dreams  and  thrills. 
And  music  singing  in  the  hills 

A  paean  of  eternal  spring 

Voices  the  new  awakening. 

The  Dawn's  awake! 

Whispers  of  pent-up  harmonies, 
With  the  mingled  fragrance  of  the  trees; 
Faint  snatches  of  half-forgotten  song — 
Fathers!  torn  and  numb, — 

The  boon  of  light  we  craved,  awaited  long, 
Has  come,  has  come! 


i«9 


190  Otto  Leland  Bohanan 


THE  WASHER-WOMAN 

A  great  swart  cheek  and  the  gleam  of  tears, 

The  flutter  of  hopes  and  the  shadow  of  fears, 

And  all  day  long  the  rub  and  scrub 

With  only  a  breath  betwixt  tub  and  tub. 

Fool!    Thou  hast  toiled  for  fifty  years 

And  what  hast  thou  now  but  thy  dusty  tears? 

In  silence  she  rubbed  .  .  .  But  her  face  I  had  seen, 

Where  the  light  of  her  soul  fell  shining  and  clean. 


Theodore  Henry  Shackelford 

THE  BIG  BELL  IN  ZION 

Come,  children,  hear  the  joyful  sound, 

Ding,  Dong,  Ding. 
Go  spread  the  glad  news  all  around, 

Ding,  Dong,  Ding. 

Chorus 
Oh,  the  big  bell's  tollin'  up  in  Zion, 

The  big  bell's  toUin'  up  in  Zion, 

The  big  bell's  tollin'  up  in  Zion, 

Ding,  Dong,  Ding. 

IVe  been  abused  and  tossed  about, 

Ding,  Dong,  Ding. 
But  glory  to  the  Lamb,  I  shout! 

Ding,  Dong,  Ding. 

My  bruthah  jus'  sent  word  to  me, 

Ding,  Dong,  Ding. 
That  he'd  done  set  his  own  self  free. 

Ding,  Dong,  Ding. 

Ole  massa  said  he  could  not  go. 

Ding,  Dong,  Ding. 
But  he's  done  reached  Ohio  sho'. 

Ding,  Dong,  Ding. 
191 


192         Theodore  Henry  Shackelford 

Ise  gwine  to  be  real  nice  an'  meek, 

Ding,  Dong,  Ding. 
Den  I'll  run  away  myself  nex*  week. 

Ding,  Dong,  Ding. 

Chorus 
Oh,  the  big  bell's  tollin'  up  in  Zion, 

The  big  bell's  tollin'  up  in  Zion, 

The  big  bell's  tollin'  up  in  Zion, 

Ding,  Dong  Ding. 


Lucian  B.  Watkins 

STAR  OF  ETHIOPIA 

Out  in  the  Night  thou  art  the  sun 
Toward  which  thy  soul-charmed  children  run, 
The  faith-high  height  whereon  they  see 
The  glory  of  their  Day  To  Be — 
The  peace  at  last  when  all  is  done. 

The  night  is  dark  but,  one  by  one, 
Thy  signals,  ever  and  anon, 

Smile  beacon  answers  to  their  plea, 

Out  in  the  Night. 

Ah,  Life !  thy  storms  these  cannot  shun ; 
Give  them  a  hope  to  rest  upon, 

A  dream  to  dream  eternally, 

The  strength  of  men  who  would  be  free 
And  win  the  battle  race  begun, 

Out  in  the  Night! 


X93 


194  Lucian  B.  Watkins 


TWO  POINTS  OF  VIEW 

From  this  low-lying  valley;  Oh,  how  sweet 

And  cool  and  calm  and  great  is  life,  I  ween, 

There  on  yon  mountain-throne — that  sun-gold  crest! 

From  this  uplifted,  mighty  mountain-seat : 

How  bright  and  still  and  warm  and  soft  and  green 

Seems  yon  low  lily-vale  of  peace  and  rest ! 


Lucian  B.  Watkins  195 


TO  OUR  FRIENDS 

We've  kept  the  faith.    Our  souls'  high  dreams 
Untouched  by  bondage  and  its  rod, 

Burn  on !  and  on !  and  on !    It  seems 

We  shall  have  Friends — while  God  is  God ! 


Benjamin  Brawley 

MY  HERO 
(To  Robert  Gould  Shaw) 

Flushed  with  the  hope  of  high  desire, 

He  buckled  on  his  sword, 
To  dare  the  rampart  ranged  with  fire. 

Or  where  the  thunder  roared ; 
Into  the  smoke  and  flame  he  went, 

For  God's  great  cause  to  die — 
A  youth  of  heaven's  element. 

The  flower  of  chivalry. 

This  was  the  gallant  faith,  I  trow, 

Of  which  the  sages  tell; 
On  such  devotion  long  ago 

The  benediction  fell; 
And  never  nobler  martyr  burned. 

Or  braver  hero  died. 
Than  he  who  worldly  honor  spurned 

To  serve  the  Crucified. 

And  Lancelot  and  Sir  Bedivere 
May  pass  beyond  the  pale. 

And  wander  over  moor  and  mere 
To  find  the  Holy  Grail ; 
197 


198  Benjamin  Brawley 

But  ever  yet  the  prize  forsooth 

My  hero  holds  in  fee; 
And  he  is  Blameless  Knight  in  truth, 

And  Galahad  to  me. 


Benjamin  Brawley  199 


CHAUCER 

Gone  are  the  sensuous  stars,  and  manifold, 
Clear  sunbeams  burst  upon  the  front  of  night ; 
Ten  thousand  swords  of  azure  and  of  gold 
Give  darkness  to  the  dark  and  welcome  light ; 
Across  the  night  of  ages  strike  the  gleams, 
And  leading  on  the  gilded  host  appears 
An  old  man  writing  in  a  book  of  dreams. 
And  telling  tales  of  lovers  for  the  years ; 
Still  Troilus  hears  a  voice  that  whispers,  Stay; 
In  Nature's  garden  what  a  mad  rout  sings! 
Let's  hear  these  motley  pilgrims  wile  away 
The  tedious  hours  with  stories  of  old  things; 
Or  might  some  shining  eagle  claim 
These  lowly  numbers  for  the  House  of  Fame! 


Joshua  Henry  Jones,  Jr. 

TO  A  SKULL 

Ghastly,  ghoulish,  grinning  skull, 

Toothless,  eyeless,  hollow,  dull. 

Why  your  smirk  and  empty  smile 

As  the  hours  away  you  wile  ? 

Has  the  earth  become  such  bore 

That  it  pleases  nevermore? 

Whence  your  joy  through  sun  and  rain? 

Is  't  because  of  loss  of  pain? 

Have  you  learned  what  men  learn  not 

That  earth's  substance  turns  to  rot? 

After  learning  now  you  scan 

Vain  endeavors  man  by  man? 

Do  you  mind  that  you  as  they 

Once  was  held  by  mystic  sway ; 

Dreamed  and  struggled,  hoped  and  prayed, 

Lolled  and  with  the  minutes  played? 

Sighed  for  honors ;  battles  planned ; 

Sipped  of  cups  that  wisdom  banned 

But  would  please  the  weak  frail  flesh ; 

Suffered,  fell,  'rose,  struggled  fresh? 

Now  that  you  are  but  a  skull 

Glimpse  you  life  as  life  is,  full 

Of  beauties  that  we  miss 

Till  time  withers  with  his  kiss? 

20Z 


202  Joshua  Henry  Jones,  Jr. 


Sinoe  jron  caanot  try  aeuo? 
And  you  know  dnt  wr,  like  jtw, 
¥nil  too  bte  our  iaflk^B  rue? 
Tdl  m^  clmli^  sraMung  sbiU 
Wktt  tep  bioo&ig\  o'er  joa  mull? 
TeQ  me  why  yoa  smirk  and  smile 
£re  I  pns  life's  sunset  sdle. 


^pendix 


Appendix 

plAcido's  sonnet  to  his  mother 

despida  a  mi  madre 

{En  La  Capilla) 

Si  la  suerte  fatal  que  me  ha  cabido, 

Y  el  triste  fin  de  mi  sangrienta  historia, 
Al  salir  de  esta  vida  transitoria 

Deja  tu  corazon  de  muerte  herido; 
Baste  de  llanto:  el  animo  afligido 
Recobre  su  quietud ;  moro  en  la  gloria, 

Y  mi  placida  lira  a  tu  memoria 
Lanza  en  la  tumba  su  postrer  sonido. 

Sonido  dulce,  melodioso  y  santo, 
Glorioso,  espiritual,  puro  y  divino, 
Inocente,  espontaneo  como  el  llanto 

Que  vertiera  al  nacer:  ya  el  cuello  incline! 
Ya  de  la  religion  me  cubre  el  manto ! 
Adios,  mi  madre!  adios — El  Peligrino. 


ao5 


2o6  Appendix 

FAREWELL  TO  MY  MOTHER 

{In  the  Chapel) 

The  appointed  lot  has  come  upon  me,  mother, 
The  mournful  ending  of  my  years  of  strife, 
This  changing  world  I  leave,  and  to  another 
In  blood  and  terror  goes  my  spirit's  life. 

But  thou,  grief-smitten,  cease  thy  mortal  weeping 
And  let  thy  soul  her  wonted  peace  regain ; 
I  fall  for  right,  and  thoughts  of  thee  are  sweeping 
Across  my  lyre  to  wake  its  dying  strains. 

A  strain  of  joy  and  gladness,  free,  unfailing 
All  glorious  and  holy,  pure,  divine. 
And  innocent,  unconscious  as  the  wailing 

I  uttered  on  my  birth;  and  I  resign 
Even  now,  my  life,  even  now  descending  slowly, 
Faith's  mantle  folds  me  to  my  slumbers  holy. 
Mother,  farewell!     God  keep  thee — and  forever! 
Translated  by  William  Cullen  Bryant, 


Appendix  207 


PLACIDO'S  FAREWELL  TO  HIS  MOTHER 

( Written  in  the  Chapel  of  the  Hospital  de  Santa  Cristina 
on  the  Night  Before  His  Execution) 

If  the  unfortunate  fate  engulfing  me, 
The  ending  of  my  history  of  grief, 
The  closing  of  my  span  of  years  so  brief, 
Mother,  should  wake  a  single  pang  in  thee, 
Weep  not.    No  saddening  thought  to  me  devote; 
I  calmly  go  to  a  death  that  is  glory-filled. 
My  lyre  before  it  is  forever  stilled 
Breathes  out  to  thee  its  last  and  dying  note. 

A  note  scarce  more  than  a  burden-easing  sigh, 
Tender  and  sacred,  innocent,  sincere — 
Spontaneous  and  instinctive  as  the  cry 
I  gave  at  birth — ^And  now  the  hour  is  here — 
O  God,  thy  mantle  of  mercy  o'er  my  sins! 
Mother,  farewell!    The  pilgrimage  begins. 

Translated  by  James  Weldon  Johnson. 


Biographical  Index  of  Authors 

BoHANAN,  Otto  Leland.  Born  in  Washington,  D.  C.  Edu- 
cated in  the  public  schools  in  Washington.  He  is  a  grad- 
uate of  Howard  University,  School  of  Liberal  Arts,  Wash- 
ington, D.  C,  and  did  special  work  in  English  at  the 
Catholic  University  in  that  city.  At  present  he  is  engaged 
in  the  musical  profession  in  New  York. 

Braithwaite,  William  Stanley.  Born  in  Boston,  1878. 
Mainly  self-educated.  A  critic  of  poetry  and  the  friend  of 
poets.  Author  of  Lyrics  of  Life,  The  House  of  Falling 
Leaves,  The  Poetic  Year,  The  Story  of  the  Great  War, 
etc.  Editor  and  compiler  of  The  Book  of  Elizabethan 
Verse,  The  Book  of  Georgian  Verse,  The  Book  of  Restora- 
tion Verse  and  a  series  of  yearly  anthologies  of  magazine 
verse.    One  of  the  literary  editors  of  the  Boston  Transcript. 

Brawley,  Benjamin.  Born  at  Columbia,  S.  C,  1882.  Edu- 
cated at  the  Atlanta  Baptist  College,  the  University  of 
Chicago  and  Harvard  University.  For  two  years  he  was 
professor  of  English  at  Howard  University,  Washington, 
D.  C.  Later  he  became  dean  of  Morehouse  College,  At- 
lanta, Ga.  Author  of  A  Short  History  of  the  American 
Negro,  The  Negro  in  Literature  and  Art,  A  Short  History 
of  the  English  Drama,  A  Social  History  of  the  American 
Negro,  etc.  Now  living  in  Boston  and  engaged  in  re- 
search and  writing. 

Campbell,  James  Edwin.  Was  born  at  Pomeroy,  Ohio,  in  the 
early  sixties.  His  early  life  was  somewhat  shrouded  in 
mystery;  he  never  referred  to  it  even  to  his  closest  asso- 
ciates. He  was  educated  in  the  public  schools  of  his  native 
city.  Later  he  spent  a  while  at  Miami  College.  In  the 
late  eighties  and  early  nineties  he  was  engaged  in  news- 
paper work  in  Chicago.  He  wrote  regularly  on  the  various 
dailies  of  that  city.  He  was  also  one  of  a  group  that 
issued  the  Four  O'Clock  Magazine,  a  literary  publication 
which  flourished  for  several  years.  He  died,  perhaps, 
twenty  years  ago.  He  was  the  author  of  Echoes  from  Th» 
Cabin  and  Elsewhere,  a  volume  of  poems. 
209 


2IO      Biographical  Index  of  Authors 

Carmichael,  Waverley  Turner.  A  young  man  who  had 
never  been  out  of  his  native  state  of  Alabama  until  several 
years  ago  when  he  entered  one  of  the  summer  courses  at 
Harvard  University.  His  education  to  that  time  had  been 
very  limited  and  he  had  endured  poverty  and  hard  work. 
His  verses  came  to  the  attention  of  one  of  the  Harvard 
professors.  He  has  since  published  a  volume,  From  the 
Heart  of  a  Folk.  He  served  with  the  367th  Regiment, 
"The  Buffaloes,"  during  the  World  War  and  saw  active 
service  in  France.  At  present  he  is  employed  as  a  postal 
clerk  in  Boston,  Mass. 

Corrothers,  James  D.,  1869-1919.  Born  in  Cass  County, 
Michigan.  Student  in  Northwestern  University,  minister 
and  poet.  Many  of  his  poems  appeared  in  The  Century 
Magazine. 

Cotter,  Joseph  S.,  Jr.,  1895-1919.  Born  at  Louisville,  Kentucky, 
in  the  room  in  which  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  first  read  his 
dialect  poems  in  the  South.  He  was  precocious  as  a  child, 
having  read  a  number  of  books  before  he  was  six  years 
old.  All  through  his  boyhood  he  had  the  advantage  and 
inspiration  of  the  full  library  of  poetic  books  belonging  to 
his  father,  himself  a  poet  of  considerable  talent.  Young 
Cotter  attended  Fisk  University  but  left  in  his  second  year 
because  he  had  developed  tuberculosis.  A  volume  of  verse, 
The  Band  of  Gideon,  and  a  number  of  unpublished  poems 
were  written  during  the  six  years  in  which  he  was  an 
invalid. 


in  the  granmiar  and  high,  school  of  his  native  city.  In 
1912,  as  the  result  of  illness,  he  lost  the  use  of  both  legs 
and  his  right  arm.  He  does  most  of  his  writing  lying  flat 
in  bed  and  using  his  left  hand.  He  is  the  author  of  The 
Poet  and  Other  Poems. 

Davis,  Daniel  Webster.  Born  in  Virginia,  near  Richmond. 
For  a  number  of  years  he  was  a  minister  and  principal 
of  the  largest  public  school  in  Richmond.  He  died  in  that 
city  some  years  ago.  He  was  the  author  of  *Weh  Down 
Souf,  a  volume  of  verse.  He  was  very  popular  as  an 
orator  and  a  reader  of  his  own  poems. 

Dett,  R.  Nathaniel.  Born  at  Drummondville,  Canada,  1882. 
Graduate  of  the  Oberlin  Conservatory  of  Music.  He  is  a 
composer,  most  of  his  compositions  being  based  on  themes 
from  the  old  "slave  songs."  His  "Listen  to  de  Lambs"  is 
widely  used  by  choral  societies.     He  is  director  of  music 


Biographical  Index  of  Authors      21 1 

at  Hampton  Institute.  He  is  also  the  author  of  The  Album 
of  a  Heart,  a  volume  of  verse. 

Du  Bois,  W.  E.  BURGHARDT.  Born  at  Great  Barrington,  Mass., 
1868.  Educated  at  Fisk  University,  Harvard  University 
and  the  University  of  Berlin.  For  a  number  of  years  pro- 
fessor of  economics  and  history  at  Atlanta  University. 
Author  of  the  Suppression  of  the  Slave  Trade,  The  Phila- 
delphia Negro,  The  Souls  of  Black  Folk,  John  Brown, 
Darkiuater,  etc.     He  is  the  editor  of  The  Crisis. 

Dunbar,  Paul  Laurence.  Born  at  Dayton,  Ohio,  1872;  died 
1906.  Dunbar  was  educated  in  the  public  schools.  He 
wrote  his  early  poems  while  working  as  an  elevator  boy. 
His  first  volume  of  poems,  Oak  and  I<vy,  was  published  in 
1893  and  sold  largely  through  his  own  efforts.  This  was 
followed  by  Majors  and  Minors,  Lyrics  of  Lowly  Life, 
Lyrics  of  the  Hearthside,  Lyrics  of  Love  and  Laughter, 
Lyrics  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow  and  Howdy,  Honey, 
Howdy.  Lyrics  of  Lowly  Life,  published  in  New  York  in 
1896  with  an  introduction  written  by  William  Dean 
Howells,  gained  national  recognition  for  Dunbar.  In  addi- 
tion to  poetical  works,  Dunbar  was  the  author  of  four 
novels,  The  Uncalled,  The  Love  of  Landry,  The  Sport  of 
the  Gods,  and  The  Fanatics.  He  also  published  several 
volumes  of  short  stories.  Partly  because  of  his  magnificent 
voice  and  refined  manners,  he  was  a  very  successful  reader 
of  his  own  poems  and  was  able  to  add  greatly  to  their 
popularity. 


Fauset,  j£SSiE  Redmon.  Born  at  Snow  Hill,  New  Jersey.  She 
was  educated  in  the  public  schools  of  Philadelphia,  at 
Cornell  University  and  the  University  of  Pennsylvania. 
For  a  while  she  was  teacher  of  French  in  the  Dunbar  High 
School,  Washington,  D.  C.  Author  of  a  number  of  un- 
collected poems  and  several  short  stories.  She  is  literary 
editor  of  The  Crisis, 


Hill,  Leslie  Pinckney.  Born  at  Lynchburg,  Va.,  i88o.  He  was 
educated  in  the  public  schools  at  Lynchburg  and  at  Har- 
vard University.  On  graduation  he  became  a  teacher  of 
English  and  methods  at  Tuskegee.  Author  of  the  Wings 
of  Oppression,  a  volume  of  verse.  He  is  principal  of  the 
Cheyney  Training  School  for  Teachers  at  Cheyney,  Pa. 

Holloway,  John  Wesley.  Born  in  Merriweather  County,  Ga., 
1865.     His   father,    who   learned   to   read    and   write    in 


212      Biographical  Index  of  Authors 

slavery,  became  one  of  the  first  colored  teachers  in  Georgia 
after  the  Civil  War.  Mr.  Holloway  was  educated  at 
Clark  University,  Atlanta,  Ga.,  and  at  Fisk  University, 
Nashville,  Tenn.  He  was  for  a  while  a  member  of  the 
Fisk  Jubilee  Singers.  Has  been  a  teacher  and  is  now  a 
preacher.  He  is  the  author  of  From  the  Desert,  a  volume 
of  verse. 


Jamison,  Roscoe  C.  Born  at  Winchester,  Tenn.,  1888;  died 
1918.     He  was  a  graduate  of  Fisk  University. 

Johnson,  Charles  Bertram.  Born  at  Callao,  Mo.,  1880.  He 
was  educated  in  the  public  schools  of  his  home  town  and 
at  Western  College,  Lincoln  Institute  and  at  Chicago  Uni- 
versity. He  was  a  teacher  for  a  number  of  years  and  is 
now  a  pastor  of  a  church  at  Moberly,  Mo.  He  is  the 
author  of  Songs  of  My  People. 

Johnson,  Fenton.  Born  at  Chicago,  1888.  He  was  educated 
in  the  public  schools  and  at  the  University  of  Chicago  and 
Northwestern  University.  The  author  of  A  Little  Dream- 
ing, Songs  of  the  Soil  and  Visions  of  the  Dusk.  He  has 
devoted  much  time  to  journalism  and  the  editing  of  a 
magazine. 

Johnson,  Georgia  Douglas.  Born  in  Atlanta,  Ga.,  1886.  She 
was  educated  in  the  public  schools  of  that  city  and  at 
Atlanta  University.  She  is  the  author  of  a  volume  of 
verse.  The  Heart  of  a  Woman  and  other  poems. 

Johnson,  James  Weldon.  Born  at  Jacksonville,  Fla.,  1871. 
He  was  educated  in  the  public  schools  of  Jacksonville,  at 
Atlanta  University  and  at  Columbia  University.  He 
taught  school  in  his  native  town  for  several  years.  Later 
he  came  to  New  York  with  his  brother,  J.  Rosamond  John- 
son, and  began  writing  for  the  musical  comedy  stage.  He 
served  seven  years  as  U.  S.  Consul  in  Venezuela  and 
Nicaragua.  Author  of  The  Autobiography  of  an  Ex- 
colored  Man,  Fifty  Years  and  Other  Poems,  and  the  Eng- 
lish libretto  to  Goyescas,  the  Spanish  grand  opera,  pro- 
duced at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  in  1915. 

Jones,  Edward  Smyth.  Attracted  national  attention  about  ten 
years  ago  by  walking  some  hunderds  of  miles  from  his 
home  in  the  South  to  Harvard  University.  Arriving 
there,  he  was  arrested  on  a  charge  of  vagrancy.  While 
in  jail,  he  wrote  a  poem,  "Harvard  Square."  The  poem 
created  a  sentiment  that  led  to  his  quick  release.  He  is 
the  author  of  The  Sylvan  Cabin, 


Biographical  Index  of  Authors      213 

Jones,  Joshua  Henry,  Jr.  He  is  engaged  in  newspaper  worlc 
in  Boston  and  is  the  author  of  a  volume  of  poems,  The 
Heart  of  the  World. 

Margetson,  George  Reginald.  Was  born  at  St.  Kitts,  British 
West  Indies,  in  1877.  He  was  educated  at  the  Moravian 
school   in  his  district.     He  came  to  the   United   States   in 

1897.  Mr.  Margetson  has  found  it  necessary  to  work  hard 
to  support  a  large  family  and  his  poems  have  been  written 
in  his  spare  moments.  He  is  the  author  of  two  volumes  of 
verses,  Songs  of  Life  and  The  Fledgling  Bard  and  the 
Poetry  Society  and,  in  addition,  a  large  number  of  un- 
collected poems.    Mr.  Margetson  lives  in  Boston. 

McClellan,  George  Marion.  Born  at  Belfast,  Tenn.,  i860. 
Graduate  of  Fisk  University  and  Hartford  Theological 
Seminary,  teacher,  principal  and  author.  He  is  the  author 
of  The  Path  of  Dreams. 

McKay,  Claude.  Born  in  Jamaica,  West  Indies,  1889.  Such 
education  as  he  gained  in  boyhood  he  received  from  his 
brother.  He  served  for  a  while  as  a  member  of  the 
Kingston  Constabulary.  In  1912  he  came  to  the  United 
States.  For  two  years  he  was  a  student  of  agriculture  at 
the  Kansas  State  College.  Since  leaving  school  Mr.  McKay 
has  turned  his  hand  to  any  kind  of  work  to  earn  a  living. 
He  has  worked  in  hotels  and  on  the  Pullman  cars.  He 
is  to-day  associate  editor  of  The  Liberator,  He  is  the  author 
of  two  volumes  of  poems.  Songs  of  Jamaica  and  Spring  in 
Ne<vj  Hampshire,  the  former  published  in  Jamaica  and  the 
latter  in  London. 

Moore,  William  H.  A.  Was  born  in  New  York  City  and  re- 
ceived his  education  in  the  public  schools  and  at  the  City 
College.  He  also  did  some  special  work  at  Columbia 
University.  He  has  had  a  long  career  as  a  newspaper 
man,  working  on  both  white  and  colored  publications. 
He  now  lives  in  Chicago.  He  is  the  author  of  Dusk  Songs, 
a  volume  of  poems. 

Nelson,  Alice  Moore  (Dunbar).  Born  at  New  Orleans,  La., 
1875.  She  was  educated  in  the  schools  of  New  Orleans 
and  has  taken  special  courses  at  Cornell  University,  Co- 
lumbia University,  and  the  University  of  Pennsylvania. 
Author  of  Violets  and  Other  Tales,  The  Goodness  of  St. 
Rocque,  Masterpieces  of  Negro  Eloquence,  and  The  Dunbar 
Speaker.     She  was  married  to  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  in 

1898.  She  has  been  a  teacher  and  is  well  known  on  the 
lecture  platform  and  as  an  editor. 


214      Biographical  Index  of  Authors 

Rogers,  Alex.  Born  at  Nashville,  Tenn.,  1876.  Educated  in 
the  public  schools  of  that  city.  For  many  years  a  writer 
of  words  for  popular  songs.  He  wrote  many  of  the  songs 
for  the  musical  comedies  in  which  Williams  and  Walker 
appeared.  He  is  the  author  of  The  Jonah  Man,  Nobody 
and  other  songs  made  popular  by  Mr.  Bert  Williams. 

Shackelford,  Theodore  Henry.  Author  of  Mammy's  Cracklin* 
Bread  and  Other  Poems,  and  My  Country  and  Other  Poems. 

Spencer,  Anne.  Born  in  Bramwell,  W.  Va,,  1882.  Educated 
at  the  Virginia  Seminary,  Lynchburg,  Va.  She  lives  at 
Lynchburg  and  takes  great  pride  and  pleasure  in  her 
garden. 

Watkins,  Luctan  B.,  was  born  in  Virginia.  He  served  overseas 
in  the  great  war  and  lost  his  health.  He  died  in  1921. 
He  was  the  author  of  a  large  number  of  uncollected  poems. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 

yAGE 

Aft€r  the  Winter 138 

And  What  Shall  You  Say? 152 

At  the  Carnival 169 

At  the  Closed  Gate  of  Justice 27 

Band  of  Gideon,  The 154 

Banjo  Player,  The 122 

Barrier,  The 141 

Before  the  Feast  of  Shushan 167 

Big  Bell  in  Zion,  The 191 

Black  Mammies 98 

Brothers 85 

Butterfly  in  Church,  A 56 

Calling  the  Doctor 94 

Chaucer 199 

Children  of  the  Sun .       .       .  117 

Christmas  at  Melrose 102 

Christmas  Eve  in  France 162 

Compensation 25 

Corn  Song,  The 96 

Creation,  The         .       .       .' 76 

Cunjah  Man,  De 18 

Dawn's  Awake!  The 189 

Dead  Fires 164 

Death  Song,  A .16 

Debt,   The 10 

Del  Cascar 63 

Dogwood  Blossoms 5^5 

Dream    and    the   Song 36 

Drum  Majah,  De 114 

Dunbar 174 

Dusk  Song 43 

Feet  of  Judas,  The 58 

Fifty  Years 89 

Flame-Heart 143 

Harlem  Dancer,  The 136 

Harlem  Shadows 137 

2x5 


216  Index  of  Titles 

PACK 

Haunted  Oak,  The u 

Heart  of  a  Woman,  The 127 

Hills  of  Sewanee,  The 57 

Hog  Meat 41 

If  We  Must  Die 134 

Indignation  Dinner,  An 34 

In  the  Matter  of  Two  Men 32 

Ironic:    LL.D. 65 

Is  It  Because  I  Am  Black? 153 

'Ittle  Touzle  Head no 

It  Was  Not  Fate 46 

I  Want  to  Die  While  You  Love  Me  ....  .130 

Keep  Me,  Jesus,  Keep  Me 181 

La  Vie  C'est  la  Vie 161 

Litany  of  Atlanta,  A 49 

Little  Brown  Baby 5 

Little  Cabin,  A 185 

Lost  Illusions 129 

Lover's  Lane 8 

Lynching,   The 133 

Miss  Melerlee 93 

Mother  Night 83 

My  Hero 197 

My  Little  Dreams 132 

Negro  Love  Song»  A 3 

Negro  Poets 187 

Negro  Serenade 17 

Negro  Singer,  The 29 

Negro  Soldiers,  The 159 

New  Day,  The 119 

O  Black  and  Unknown  Bards 73 

Oblivion 166 

or  Doc'  Hyar 21 

Oriflamme 165 

O  Southland 84 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 28 

Prayer,  A 151 

Rain  Music 156 

Rain  Song,  The 177 

Rhapsody          .       . 68 


Index  of  Titles  217 

PAGE 

Road  to  the  Bow,  The 30 

Rubinstein  Staccato  Etude,  The        ......  izs 

Sandy  Star  and  Willie  Gee       .......  59 

Scarlet  Woman,  The 123 

Scintilla 66 

Sence  You  Went  Away        . 75 

Ships  That  Pass  in  the  Night 7 

Sic   Vita 67 

Song  of  Thanks,  A 107 

Sonnet 183 

Sprin'  Fevah 113 

Spring  in  New  Hampshire 139 

Stanzas  from  The  Fledgling  Bard  and  the  Poetry  Society  .  69 

Star  of  Ethiopia .  193 

Summer  Magic 104 

Supplication 157 

Teacher,  The 105 

Time  to  Die 109 

Tired 121 

Tired  Worker,  The 140 

To  a  Skull 201 

To  O.  E.  A 142 

To  Our  Friends 195 

To  the  White  Fiends 135 

Translation 173 

Turn  Me  to  My  Yellow  Leaves 64 

Tuskegee           101 

Two-an'-Six 145 

Two  Points  of  View 194 

Uncle  Eph's  Banjo  Song 20 

Washer-Woman,  The 190 

'Weh  Down  Souf 39 

Welt 131 

When  de  Co'n  Pone's  Hot 14 

When  Ol'  Sis  Judy  Pray 23 

White  Witch,  The 80 

Why  Adam  Sinned 175 

Wife-Woman,  The 171 

Winter  Is  Coming 182 

Youth         . 12S 

Zalka   Peetruza ii2 


PS  ^51 


DARKWATER 

By  W.  E.  B.  DuBois 


A  human  document  of  ex- 
traordinary intensity  and  in- 
sight, describing  the  awakened 
conscience  and  aspirations  of 
the  darker  races  everywhere 
and  how  it  feels  to  be  a  black 
man  in  a  white  world.  Even 
more  than  the  late  Booker 
Washington,  Dr.  DuBois  is 
now  the  chief  spokesman  of 
the  two  hundred  million  men 
and  women  of  African  blood. 

"Dr.  DuBois  is  an  artist, 
and  his  book  m.ust  be  reckoned 
among  those  that  add  not  only 
to  the  wisdom,  but  to  the  ex- 
altation and  the  glory  of 
man." — Francis  Hackett  in 
The  New  Republic. 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  &  CO. 


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